The parables of Père Bonaventure Giraudeau, S.J.

MAJ.
LGE

THE

PARABLES

PERE BONA VENTURE GIRAUDEAU, S.J.

Author of 1'Evangile Medite. g. •; , /

.57

A NEW VERSION, BY T. R.

DUBLIN:

RICHARD GRACE, CATHOLIC BOOKSELLER,
-15, CAPEL STREET.

1838,

REGIS
BIBL. MAJ

TO THE PUBLIC,

THE PARABLES OF FATHER BONAVENTURE
have been so well received, both on the continent
and in this country, that nothing more appears
necessary to be said in their commendation. The
sanction of a pious and discerning Public proves
the value of them. The last English Edition of
them has been long out of print ; and a Right
Rev. Prelate having expressed a wish to see a new
and improved Edition, the present Translator has
made an humble attempt to meet his Lordship's
wish, and here respectfully offers the fruit of his
labours to the Irish Public.

61700

•

PARABLES, &c.

PARABLE I.
The untr actable Orphan.

A KING of Persia,* who had no child to inherit
his throne, met in the street a poor little orphan
beggar. Being taken with the beauty of his fi
gure, he ordered him to be conducted to his pa
lace, with an intention of adopting him. When
the child was dressed as the son of the king, he
appeared charming, and became the delight of the
court. The king happening to die soon after, it
was discovered in his will, that orders were left
for this child to be educated with the greatest care
possible, till he was fifteen years of age ; and

* Persia a celebrated empire of Asia, consists of several
provinces, which, at different times, have had their par
ticular kings. Its productions are corn, wine, oil, silk,
and excellent fruits ; and the manufactures of carpets,
gold and silver lace, embroidery, and harnessing for horses
are here carried to the highest degree of perfection. There
is no considerable river in this extensive country, except
the Araxes, and it has but few forests. The principal ci
ties are Ispahan, Schiraz, and Teheran. The religion is
generally Mahometan.

6 The untraetable Orphan.

that, if his improvement corresponded to the care
that should be taken of him, and he was found vir
tuous, and worthy of the throne, he then adopted
him, and bequeathed to him his kingdom : but if,
on the contrary, he did not profit by the educa
tion he should receive, but grew up in vice, that
then he should be stripped, driven from court,
and condemned to hard labour, &c.

The will was executed. Preceptors were ap
pointed him ; and nothing was omitted that could
contribute to form his heart, to improve and adorn
his mind, and to make him completely fit to fill
the high station destined for him.

During his infancy, he discovered nothing but
bad inclinations, and a disrelish for every thing
that could be useful to him. He was extremely
self-willed, and passionate with his instructors :
his books he either trampled under foot, or threw
out of the window : whatever was put into his
hands for his improvement, he broke and spoiled.
When he was bigger, he was made acquainted
with the king's will. Daily were the sceptre and
the crown, that were destined for him, represented
to him, on one side ; and on the other, the infamy
and punishment to which he was condemned.
These considerations made no impression on him.
As he grew older, he employed himself in nothing
better than raising houses of mud, and building
castles of cards. When his masters overturned
these frivolous things, he cried, he fretted, he
threatened ; and, instead of applying to what was
appointed him to learn, no sooner Mras he alone
than he returned to the same childish amusements :
in a word, he would learn nothing good. He,

The untractable Orphan. 7

however, learned, and nobody knew how, to utter
the most vulgar and unbecoming words. It was
in vain to attempt to correct him ; he was hard
ened against all reproof. As he advanced in age,
he became more and more wicked, and plunged
into the greatest vices. Passion, cruelty, avarice,
excess in eating and drinking, were not the only
vices he was guilty of. His discourse was suited
to his inclinations : those actions only did he
praise that were vicious : debauchery was his de
light, and drunkenness his glory.

These bad dispositions grew up with him, till he
attained the age of fifteen. The council then as
sembled ; he was summoned before it : the king's
will was read to him ; and being unanimously de
clared unworthy to reign, he was stripped, and
condemned to hard labour for life. On hearing his
condemnation, he then, for the first time, seemed
to feel, and to shew signs of repentance. He
turned pale — he trembled — he shed tears — he
sighed — he asked for pardon ; but it was too late
— the decree was passed, and there was no re
peal.

I cannot but feel compassion for this wretched
child. What a dreadful day must that have been
for him ! What a fall ! How irreparable the loss !
Yet his conduct cannot fail to shock us : it was
odious; it was insupportable. Wretch that he
was ! did he not know what he had to hope for, and
what he had to fear ? Alas 1 and have not you the
like knowledge ? Are you not this child, destined,
by adoption, to an eternal kingdom, if you con
duct yourself, through life, in a mariner worthy of
the throne which is promised you ? And are you

8 The imprudent Slave.

not threatened with eternal punishment, if you
lead a life unworthy of your adoption ?

Compare your life with that of this child, and
you will find yours equally frivolous, unworthy,
and vicious : yet you have been instructed : you
know how matters stand in your regard. If God,
in his mercy, has sometimes deprived you of ob
jects, to which you were unworthily attached, so
far from entering into yourself, and returning to
him with sincerity and affection, have you not been
obstinately bent on fixing your whole mind and
heart on the earth only ? The day, however, is
coming, and is near at hand, when it shall be de
cided, whether you are worthy of heaven, or de
serving hell. In that day, tears and lamentations
will be of no avail.

PARABLE II.
The Imprudent Slave.

A GENTLEMAN of large fortune, named Ariatus,
conceived an affection for one of his slaves, whose
name was Afrenes. He had taken him from the
drudgery of the fields, to employ him in his house,
with an intention of shortly giving him his liberty.
In fact, he one day called him, and said to him :
" Afrenes, I have a commission to entrust thee
with, and to send thee some leagues hence. If
thou execute my commission well, I will give thee
thy liberty, and with it a gratuity, with which thou
wilt have reason to be satisfied. This," continued
he, " is the commission in question. Thou know-

The imprudent Slave. 9

est my Lord Eusebius, and where he lives : take
him these thirty talents of silver,* which are due
to him ; receive his acknowledgment, and bring it
to me : this is all I require of thee. Thou know-
est, that, when thou hast passed the monument of
Hebe, two roads will present themselves, one to
the right, the other to the left. Take that to the
right, which will lead thee to the house of Euse
bius : the one to the left will take thee to Caquis-
tus's : I absolutely forbid thee to enter his house.
He is a wicked man, who pretends he has a right
to every tiling, and who will seize on thy money.
Notice particularly this caution : for shouldst thou
part with the money to him, all my love for thee
will be changed into hatred: and instead of liberty,
and the other advantages promised thee, I would
load thee with irons, and condemn thee to the
hardest work in the country, where thou shouldst
remain for life."

" Master," replied Afrenes, " neither the hope
of reward, nor the fear of punishment, need be
employed to prompt me to execute your com
mands : duty, and the desire I have of pleasing
you, will ever be to me the sole motives of action."
Saying this, he took the money, and departed.

He had not gone far, before he began to ex
claim : " O happy liberty, for which I have so
long sighed ! thou art now within my grasp, and
to-morrow's sun will see me free. O thrice happy
day for me !" He then began to reason with him
self, and to say : " When I am free, with the little
money I have, and the present my master will

* The talent here meant was probably worth 601.

A 2

10 The wtprudcnt Slave.

make me, I may do something for myself. Yet,"
added he, " if I had only ten talents more, 1 could
then manage much better. What a fool I am,"
continued he, " to want ten talents, while I have
thirty in my possession ! Who can hinder me from
taking ten talents from these thirty ? W7ho will
know it ? My Lord Eusebius will have quite
enough with twenty." This said, he opens the
bag, takes out ten talents for his own use, and
continues his journey, and his soliloquy.

" I am going then to carry," said he to himself,
" these twenty talents to my Lord Eusebius. I
know him well : he is a hard man, and very ava
ricious. I will lay a wager he does not so much
as thank me for my trouble. Ah ! it is not so with
my Lord Caquistus. I am very sure, if I go to
his house, he will not let me go without first mak
ing me taste his wine." Saying that, our traveller
comes to the monument of Hebe ; and the two
roads are open to his choice. " Here is the dif
ficulty," said he, " which road shall I take ? After
all," continued he, " I can first of all call upon my
Lord Caquistus, and then, when I shall have
rested a little, I can go to my Lord Eusebius's ;
it will be all one." Upon this, he takes the road
to the left. Caquistus espied him at some dis
tance; and, on his approaching, thus accosted
him : " Well, is it you, my dear Afrenes ? Do
you bring any money ?" " Yes, sir." " How
much ?" " Twenty talents." " That is very
little ; but no matter ; come in, notwithstanding,
and take a glass of wine before dinner." " But,
sir," said Afrenes, " I do not bring this money
for you." " For whom then. ?" " For my Lord

The imprudent Slave. 1 1

Eusebius." " Very well," replied Caquistus, " but
Eusebius, I know, does not want it : only give it
me, my child, arid you shall dine with me." " But,"
rejoined Afrenes, " I am to take a receipt to my
master." " Very well," answered Caquistus ; " I
will give you one : it will make no odds to your
master." Afrenes, who did not know how to read,
nor the amount for which the receipt was given,
delivered the money, and took the acknowledg
ment. They then sat down to table : and after
dinner, they amused and diverted themselves, till
it was time for him to return home.

Afrenes walked off slowly, alittle disturbed atwhat
he had done, not knowing how the business would
terminate. " Thou returnest very late," said his
master on seeing him." ''Sir," replied Afrenes, "it
is because I was obliged to stop dinner." " Is Euse
bius well ?" " Yes, Sir ; at least he did not appear
to me to be indisposed." " Didst thou give him
the money?" "Yes sir." "Hast thou his receipt?"
" I have, sir ; here it is." Aristus, on opening the
note, at first sight discovered Caquistus's signature,
" What now !" cried he ; " it was Caquistus that
gavethee this note; thou tookest the money then to
him." Afrenes was disconcerted ; he faltered, and
remained silent. Aristus having perused the note —
" How is this ?" said he ; " thou hast given only
twenty talents. Where are the other ten ?" Afrenes
seeing that every thing was discovered, threw him
self at the feet of his master, and said : " My Lord,
1 am a wretch, deserving nothing but your anger.
I have not done any thing that you ordered me ;
and I have done every thing that you forbad me.
Punish me ; I have merited punishment." Aris-

12 The imprudent Slave.

tus said to him : " Thou hast not kept thy word,
but I will keep mine ;" and immediately ordering
irons to be put on him, he sent him into the coun
try, to be there employed in the most irksome
labour ; nor would he any more either see him,
or hear his name mentioned.

Can a conduct be conceived more unaccount
ably foolish, than that of this slave ? Let us con
sider its principal features, and see, if in some
points, it does not resemble ours.

1st. His ingratitude. Call here to your mind
all the benefits you have received from God. He
made you out of nothing, by your creation. He
afterwards, by a special goodness, drew you out
of the state of perdition, by admitting you into
his house, viz. his Church ; there for some time
to try your fidelity in his service, and shortly
after to put you in possession of Paradise, to enjoy
entire liberty, unbounded happiness, and life eter
nal. This is the end for which he created you.
Could you wish for one more noble and more ad
vantageous ? To help you to attain this end, he
created the world, and established his Church. In
giving you a body and a soul, and in leaving to
your discretion the use of all creatures, he requires
only one thing of you ; he forbids you only one
thing. What he requires of you is, that, when
you come to the use of reason, having passed the
years of infancy, and become capable of distin
guishing good from evil, you should then enter
into the paths of justice, piety, and devotion,
walking in the ways of his commandments, using
his benefits only with a reference to his service
and your own salvation, and referring all to his
glory. The only thing he forbids you, is not to

The imprudent Slave. 13

enter the wide road of iniquity, not to sacrifice
to the devil and the world the talents, which were
entrusted to you to be employed only in his ser
vice ; to rob him of none of the goods he has com
mitted to your care, and not to make them subser-
vientto self-love, avarice, pride, or the gratification
of any inordinate passion. Here examine what your
conduct has hitherto been in these particulars.

II. His disobedience. It is of importance to
examine this point well.

1st. He considers the reward promised to his
obedience as certain ; and yet he is indifferent,
whether he obeys or not. The pleasing idea of
liberty fills his mind, but he does not even think
of the means required of him to obtain it. In the
same manner, we all expect to be saved ; not one
of us would willingly damn himself: yet we do not
think seriously of the only means we have of sal
vation, and of avoiding eternal ruin, which is,
obeying the commands of God.

2dly. He pretends to obey; and yet he enter
tains those thoughts onty, which invite him to dis
obey. And how do you expect to keep the law of
God, if you listen to nothing, if you read nothing,
if you seek and love nothing, but what is contrary
to it ; if you revolve in your mind and in your
heart those thoughts only, those projects, which
are directly opposed to it.

3dly. He pretended to obey and disobey at the
same time ; to do first what he was forbidden, and
then what he was commanded. This is the fatal
rock : we begin by serving the world, and purpose
afterwards to serve God ; but, generally speaking,
people are cut off by death, without an opportu-

14 The imprudent Slave.

nity of serving God, after having been slaves, and
nothing but slaves, to the world.

III. Kis rashness. This is observable in three
things.

1st. He flatters himself, that his actions and
proceedings will not be known by his master. Are
there philosophers, who can persuade themselves
that God is ignorant of thei? actions and blas
phemies ; or that, knowing them, he will not pu
nish them ? There may be — but we, who believe
that God knows and sees all things, how dare we
sin in his presence, and under his eye ? Ah I how
has this word, " Nobody will know it," emboldened
the hearts of men to commit iniquity ? It is then
thus, that among men the Almighty is accounted
as nothing.

2dly. He is satisfied with the receipt, obtained
from his master's enemy. And do not we feel
tisfied, if we can but gain the applause and appro
bation of the world ? Are we not content to save
appearances ? When the world applauds us in
our disorders, for actions contrary to the law of
God, do we want any thing more ? Do we not
congratulate ourselves, and feel quite at our ease ?

3dly. He was not afraid to present the receipt
to his master. That was the height of rashness.
It is, however, in this point that we resemble him
most. We are always advancing, in spite of our
selves, towards the tribunal of God ; and we dare
appear before his awful Majesty with a consci
ence loaded with iniquities, with a conscience,
witness against us, and bearing in plain characters
an exact account of all whatever we have done,
said, thought, loved, and desired.

The imprudent Slave. 15

But three things make us still more culpable
than this slave.

1st. He did not know how to read; and this
was not his fault : whereas we, in our conscience,
can read and examine what it contains ; and if
you should say, that you cannot read there, I
answer, that it is your own fault, because you
have never practised, nor accustomed yourself to
it. On the contrary, you are afraid of looking
into it, that you may not be at the trouble of
entering into yourself, and taking a few moments
for recollection ; as if it were not better to take
this trouble to remove whatever is against you,
than to carry it unexamined and unrepented of
to the tribunal of God, to be punished eternally
for it.

2dly. He did not know the value of the note :
and this note discovered every thing he wished to
conceal. But supposing it to be true, that you did
not understand how to read in your conscience,
you at least know very well, that it contains all
the ill you have done, and that it will reproach
you with it at the tribunal of God. You are,
then, very rash and foolish, to carry it thither in
this condition.

3dly. He could not alter the note ; and after
the fault he had committed, he had no remedy
left : but you have a remedy, and you certainly
would be very foolish, not to avail yourself of the
use of it.

The remedy is this : 1st. That you learn to read
in your conscience ; that you turn over with the
greatest care this record of your life ; that you
examine, and thoroughly understand what it con-

1 6 The imprudent Slave*

tains ; that you wash off by your tears, and re
move by a good confession, whatever appears
against you.

2dly. If, in spite of all your care and applica
tion, you find any passage that you cannot make
out, you will leave it to the mercy of God, try to
consume it in the flames of divine love, and mal
it serve as a foundation for humility ; not disturt
ing yourself, but persevering in the service of your
Master with confidence and love, and at the same
time with fear and trembling ; remembering, th*
your Master is your Father ; that he requires no
more than an upright heart and good-will ; that he
does not wish to be served with anxiety ; that ex
cessive scrupulosity offends him ; and that yoi
honour him, by placing your confidence in him.

3dly. That you take great care, for the future,
not to give admittance to any thing into your con
science that may load it, and be witness against
you ; and if any such thing should happen to enter
through your negligence, examine it immediately,
and wash it off by a true and sincere repentance.
Doing so, you will keep your conscience in a good
state, and present it to God with confidence. It
will be the test of your fidelity, and God will grant
you the reward promised to the faithful servant
which you will enjoy throughout eternity.

17

PARABLE III.

The Manna of the Desert.

THE manna which God gave to the Israelites in
the desert, is a very natural figure of the goods
of this world.

I. The manna was unknown. — The first time
the Israelites saw the ground covered with it, they
asked one another in surprise, " What is that?"
From this question, made in Hebrew, that small,
white, crispy substance, was called Manna. The
same question may be put respecting the goods
of this world, " What is that ?" Young man, you
who are just beginning to behold and distinguish
the objects, spread in profusion before you upon
the earth, judge not of them by the impression
made on your senses. You see, in the world,
riches, honours, pleasures. Before you abandon
yourself to these objects, learn first what they are,
and ask : " What is that ?" Ask it of your pa-

• rents, or of some virtuous or prudent man ; but
particularly ask it of the Father of lights, that
you may not be deceived as to the nature and use
of these blessings. You will see the greatest part
of men running after them, and labouring without
intermission to procure them ; and yet never satis
fied with them, when obtained. You will observe
others, on the contrary, who contemn these worldly
advantages, who fear and quit them. At this
sight, ask again : " What is that ? Whence
comes this difference in the judgments and con
duct of people ?"

18 The Manna of the Desert.

II. The manna was a white substance, trans
parent as crystal. The goods of this world have
the like quality : they shine and they dazzle. Let
not their splendor seduce you. Never court
them ; never make use of them, without first ask
ing : " What is that ?"

IIL The manna came from heaven. The goods
of the world have God for their author. It is
God that created the earth : it is by his order that
it produces so many different things, so many
fruits, so many metals, so much riches. It is God
who regulates the different ranks of men : it is he,
who makes kings, potentates, great and illustrious
personages, and who confers on them the glory
that surrounds them : it is he likewise, who makes
the poor and the ignorant, and who supports them
in their lowly and abject state. It is God, in fine,
that is the Creator and Bestower of all the plea
sures that are on the earth : who gave the senses
to your body, and to your soul the faculties ne
cessary to ecjoy them. This first truth leads you
to a second, viz. that God, in creating these good
things, had his views, to which you ought to con
form, as he will, one day, demand an account of
the manner in which you have employed his be
nefits. He will examine, if, in the use of these
goods, you have conformed to his laws, or dis
regarded them. If then there be any of these
goods, which he forbids you the use of, in order
to try your fidelity, from these it is your duty to
abstain : if there be others, the use of which he
has regulated, you are obliged to observe the rules
he has established, and to keep within the bounds
of moderation, justice, and charity, which he has

The Manna of the Desert. 1 9

marked out, and not live as if, in the acquisition,
the possession, or the enjoyment of these goods,
you had no master, but were at full liberty to do
as you pleased.

IV. The manna was a very small substance,
which very well expresses the insignificance of the
goods, pomps, and pleasures of this world. You
must not judge of these by the noise and bustle
made by worldlings ; judge of them rather from
the satisfaction they derive from them. Interro
gate them, examine them closely ; and, among
those who enjoy these goods with the greatest re
lish, and in the greatest abundance, you will not
fine one that is satisfied.

V. The manna was a transient good ; that is to
say, it was to serve as food for the Hebrew people,
only during the time of their journey through the
desert, and till they entered the Land of Promise.
After this, the manna was no longer to fall for
their nourishment and support. In like manner,
the goods of this world are given us in the de
sert, and during the pilgrimage of this life : but
at our death, which will be our entrance into
eternity, other goods, other glory, other delights
are reserved for us. What will the goods of this
world then be to us ? They will be taken away,
both from those foolish ones, whose heart was at
tached to them, and from the wise, who, contemn
ing them, used them only in conformity to the
will of God.

VI. The measure of manna was regulated for
each individual : no one was to gather more than

» a certain quantity each day. They who out of
greediness, gathered more, gained nothing by it ;

20 The Manna of the Desert.

for, on reaching home, they found no more than
the measure prescribed, the rest having melted
away. The measure of the goods of this life like
wise is regulated according to the wants of each
one in his particular state. Were this measure,
as prescribed by Providence, observed by every
body, there would be more than enough for every
one, nor would any be in want. Of what use is
the accumulation of riches to the miser ? Does
he live more sumptuously on that account? Of
ten less so. Is the ambitious man more content
and more honoured, for having so many dignities
united in himself? These are often the cause of
his being more uneasy and more contemned.
What better is the voluptuary, for possessing such
a profusion of delights, and wallowing in them ?
Is he the more happy ? Does he, on that account,
enjoy better health ? On the contrary, he is of
ten, in consequence of his excess, made more in
firm, and rendered incapable of tasting the inno
cent and moderate pleasures, which otherwise he
might have enjoyed.

VII. The manna required vigilance and labour.
It was necessary to gather it before sun-rise : it
was to be ground, kneaded, baked, and made bread
of. Poverty, brought on by idleness, does not
deserve compassion. Work, placing your confi
dence in God, and you will never want bread.

VIII. The manna spoiled by keeping ; so that
they, who wished to keep it from one day to
another, found it the next day corrupted and full
of maggots. An exact image this of the little de-
pendance there is to be placed on the goods of
this world. Worms, thieves, unsuccessful specu-

The Manna of the Desert. 21

lations, the injustice of men, the intemperature of
the air, the irregularity of the seasons, a thousand
unforeseen accidents, daily deprive us of some
property or other, on the enjoyment and posses
sion of which we thought we could depend with
certainty.

IX. The manna, in certain cases, was incor
ruptible. Every Friday a double quantity was
gathered, one half of which kept without spoiling,
for Saturday's use. This was done, that the law
of holy rest on the Sabbath-day might not be vio
lated. Moses took a Gomer* (one day's allow
ance) of manna, which he put into the ark, for the
purpose of carrying it into the Promised Land,
that it might be to the Hebrew people a monu
ment of the benefits God had bestowed upon them;
and that the remembrance of his loving kindness
might never fail to excite their love and confi
dence : and this manna did not spoil. The Pro
mised Land and the Sabatical Rest were figures
of Heaven and of Eternity. The use we make of
the goods of this life for heaven, for God, for the
salvation and relief of our neighbour, changes the
nature and the quality of them. Of corruptible,
as they are, it makes them incorruptible ; of fleet
ing and perishable, it makes them lasting and per
manent; of temporal, it makes them eternal.
Happy the man, who knows and practices this
admirable and divine secret !

X. In fine, the manna had different tastes, ac
cording to the dispositions of those who ate it ;
so that to some it was insipid and disgusting ; to

* Or Homer, measuring about five pints.

22 The Sleep- Walker.

others it was delicious, arid of exquisite flavour :
in like manner, the goods of this world, accord-
to the use that shall have been made of them in
this life, will procure in the next, for some, in
supportable disgust and bitterness ; for others, a
relish, delicious and unspeakable.

PARABLE IV.
The Sleep- Walker.

THE King of Korea* sent two officers of his
household to fish for pearls for him. He wanted
these pearls to make a superb-necklace, which he
intended to present to his father : that is to say,
to the Emperor of China,f this Emperor being so
called by the Kings, that are tributary to him.
One of these officers he sent to the eastern coast
of Korea ; the other, to the western. He charged

* Korea, or Corea, is a peninsula lying to the N. E. of
China.

f China is an extensive empire of Asia, being about
3500 British miles in length from E. to W. and 2200 in
breadth from N. to S. It produces abundance of corn of
every sort, and particularly rice j as also a very great
quantity of silk. Tea is a production peculiar to this coun
try, and China supplies all the rest of the world with that
commodity. The English alone bring away annually four
teen millions of pounds of it. It also contains mines of every
sort of metal.

China is particularly remarkable for its vast population ;
for the singular manners, ideas, and genius of its inhabit
ants ; for the jealous policy of its government ; for its
agriculture and inland navigation j and for its celebrated

me
ha

A&L

The Sleep- Walker. 23

them to be very diligent, to collect as many pearls
as they could, and to return to his court on a cer
tain appointed day. Mindao was the name of the
one dispatched to the eastern coast. He acquitted
himself of his commission with assiduity and with
success. He went every night to the coast with
a lamp, and employed his time in fishing ; and
during the day he took his repose. As for the
other, named Yanki, who had been ordered to
the western coast, where pearls were more abund
ant, he passed the days in amusements, and the
nights in sleep. He, however, came each night
to the coast; but as he was a sleep-walker, he
came thither asleep, without knowing what he
did ; and instead of fishing for peals, he gathered
pebbles, with which he filled a basket, which he
took care to bring with him. The other fisher
men, that saw him from some distance, might
ve sworn by his manner and by his motions,
that he was fishing for pearls, and that he returned
loaded with them; yet he did not gather, nor
did he return loaded with any thing but pebbles.
On his return home, he enptied his basket, with
out awaking, into the casket destined to contain

wall, the most stupendous work of human labour in the
world. This wall is above fifteen hundred miles in length,
and is in general twenty-five feet high, and fifteen thick ;
and at every hundred yards there is a tower. It was built
more than two thousand years ago, to protect China from
the incursions of the Tartars.

The principal rivers of China are the Kian-ku and the
Hoang-ho, each of which runs about two thousand two
hundred miles. The chief cities are Pekin, Nankin, and
Canton. This last is the only port to which Europeans
are permitted to trade.

24 The Sleep- Walker.

his pearls. He then went to bed again, where he
continued to sleep till broad day-light. During
this last part of his sleep, he had the most pleasant
dreams imaginable. He seemed to be on the
coast fishing for pearls, which he got in great
numbers, filling his basket with them, and then
emptying them into his casket. On his awaking
in the morning, he was so full of his dream, that
he did not doubt but it was a reality ; and besides
he was so taken up with his pleasures, that he did
not even allow himself time to look into his cas
ket, in order to see what it contained. The
whole of the time, prescribed by the king, passed
in this manner. At length the day arrived when
he was to return. Occupied even on that day
with a thousand other objects, he packed up his
casket without opening it, and arrived at court on
the same day as Mindao. Both their caskets were
presented to the king : Mindao's was opened first,
and a great many fine pearls found in it. The
king was so well pleased, that he immediately
appointed Mindao governor of a province, and
gave him a considerable pension. Yanki nattered
himself that he should receive an equal reward :
but what was the surprise of all present, when, on
his casket being opened, instead of pearls, it was
discovered to contain nothing but pebble-stones.
Yanki could not believe his eyes : but the king who
considered this as an insult, was so irritated, that
he gave orders for Yanki to be stoned to death,
with the very pebbles he had had the impudence
to present him with.

Yanki wished to make his excuses ; but the
king would not hear him, and withdrew in a vio-

The Sleep-Walker. 25

lent passion. He, however, contrived to get an
audience of the chancellor of the kingdom, and
endeavoured to excuse himself, by lamenting the
misfortune of being a sleep walker, this being, he
thought, the sole cause of the disaster. But the
chancellor answered, that, since he knew that he
walked in his sleep, he ought to have taken the
precautions necessary to keep himself awake : that
he ought, at least, during the day to have ex
amined the transactions of the night ; that he
ought, before his return, or, at least, before he
presented himself at court, to have examined the
contents of his casket, and not to have exposed
himself to the anger and indignation of his so
vereign. Yanki allowed that he had done wrong,
and was satisfied to petition that he might be again
sent to the coast, promising to repair his fault.
Oh ! interrupted the chancellor, the king does not
twice expose the glory of his commands to the
disobedience of his officers. Saying this he with
drew, and poor Yanki was led out to punishment.

It is easy to discover the drift of this parable.
We are all placed in this world to gather and lay
up pearls ; that is to say, to practice virtue and
good works. It is Jesus Christ, our King, who
sends us, and furnishes us with the opportunities
and the means. It is to him that our merits must be
referred, and through him that they must be offered
to God, his Father. We can, directed by the
light of faith, gather some on the eastern coast ;
that is, in prosperity ; but the western coast, the
way of afflictions and sufferings, is the richest,
and abounds most in them.

Alas ! in this lower world, how many sleep and

B

26 The Sleep- Walker.

dream ; who, instead of pearls, worthy of being
presented to their King, amass nothing but peb
bles, which offend him, and enkindle his wrath,
and are calculated only to be instrumental in their
own punishment. Is it not amassing stones in
stead of pearls, to suffer our whole time to be
taken up with the goods of the earth, with the ho
nours and pleasures of this life, and to neglect the
goods of eternity ? What is that man, who piques
himself on his probity, but who has no religion ;
who does good works but who has not true faith ?
He is a sleeper and a dreamer. Again, what is the
man who suffers without patience and resignation ;
who attends divine service without devotion ; who
recites his prayers without attention ; who fulfils
the duties of his state without a right intention ;
who is actuated in what he does by natural feel
ing, custom or human motives ? He is a sleep
walker, who does not know what he is about ; who
has the appearance of virtue, and imitates its ways
and motions, without its merits ; who, in a word,
gathers nothing but pebble-stones ; and who, in
stead of a reward, has every reason to apprehend
punishment.

Awake, ye that sleep ; think of what you are
doing: open your eyes, and see what you are
amassing. Do not go and present yourselves be
fore your King, and appear at his tribunal, with
out knowing what you take thither ; and without
having first well examined what there is in your
conscience, before it is presented and laid open
to his view. During life, you may still remove
the stones, and substitute pearls in their place,
by a true sorrow, a sincere repentance, the sacra-

The Astronomer in Lapland, 27

meuts and good works. But, when you have
once entered eternity, do not expect a second
life will be granted you, to repair the errors of
the first. Do now what you would then wish to
have done : for nothing will then remain to you,
but to receive either punishment, or reward, for
what you shall have done in this life.

PARABLE V.
The Astronomer in Lapland.*

AN astronomer, by order of the king his master,
set sail for the northern climes, to observe the
passage of Venus over the sun's disk. Upon his
arrival in Lapland, he found that the inhabitants
of that country, who are of a very diminutive size,
had not yet left their winter habitations. These
were deep caverns under ground, having no other
opening than the door by which they entered.
In these caverns were kept up immense and con
tinual fires, made of whole trees, quite green, and
with their leaves on : the rising smoke was so
thick, that they could not see, much less distin
guish one another, when they approached to warm
themselves.

* Lapland, in the N. of Europe, is a dreary country,
being almost entirely a mass of rugged mountains, gloomy
vallies, dusky forests, and noisome morasses and lakes. The
inhabitants are few in number, and in an uncivilized state.
They subsist chiefly on the milk and flesh of their rein-deer,
and they make use of these animals to draw their sledges
when they travel. It is subject to Sweden.

28 Tlie Astronomer in Lapland.

One calm and fine evening, before the Lapland
ers had retired to their subterraneous abodes,
our astronomer, who had already made his obser
vations, explained to them the course of the stars,
told them their names, and pointed out the planets
to them. The Laplanders were wonderfully de
lighted with hearing him discourse, and in view
ing the instruments he made use of. One took
up a quadrant, but understood nothing of the use
of it : another looked through a telescope, but
could see nothing. The names of Descartes,
Newton, and Copernicus, caused loud and con
tinued bursts of laughter among them. At last,
the chief of the company, assuming a more seri
ous air, thus addressed the astronomer: " Indeed,
Sir, both you and your king, and your whole na
tion, must have lost your senses, to amuse your
selves with such silly fancies." The astronomer,
who felt himself piqued, replied : " That you
who live in darkness, who inhabit the caverns of
the earth, and see not what is in them for smoke,
and who know nothing of the productions of the
earth ; that you, I say, should be ignorant of the
phenomena of the heavens, and that you should
laugh at those who do observe them, and discourse
to you about them is by no means surprising."
On hearing this, all the Laplanders set up a fright
ful cry ; they hooted him loudly, and perhaps
would have proceeded to violence, had not the
prudent astronomer instantly withdrawn. Shortly
after, he returned into his native country, where
he published an exact account of his observations,
and a detailed memoir of his adventures. In the
bosom of his family, he now enjoys the favour
of his king, and the esteem of his countrymen.

The Astronomer in Lapland. 29

I observe three things in these Laplanders :
I. Their darkness. With regard to the things
that concern our salvation, we all are in this world
as in a house full of smoke. The corruption of
our senses, and the blind impetuosity of our pas
sions, raise within us and about us clouds of
thick vapour, which darken the pure light of
our mind, and stifle the noblest sentiments of our
heart. We see neither what is within us, nor
what is without : we know neither what is in the
world ; nor what is out of the world ; neither
what is in time, nor what is in eternity ; neither
the insignificance of what is temporal, nor the
greatness of what is eternal. Wre give to
earthly and perishable things the esteem and at
tention which things heavenly and everlasting
only deserve; and we show for the latter the
contempt which the former only merit. Hence
men call that good, which is evil ; and that evil,
which is good. They take darkness for light,
the way for the term, the place of their exile for
that of their true country.

Before death, let us remove the veil from be-

Rre our eyes, let us take the torch of Faith, which,
St. Peter says, will enlighten us in this place
of darkness. Let us listen to those, who, guided
by this heavenly light, teach us the important
truths of salvation ; admonishing us, that eternal
goods and eternal evils alone deserve our thoughts;
and that the perishable goods and evils of the
earth do not merit our attention, unless in as much
as they have a reference to the goods and evils of
eternity.

II. Their railleries — When I see impious men

B 2

30 The Viper- Catcher.

attacking religion, heretics resisting the church,
libertines scoffing at devotion, I seem to be in
those northern climes, and that 1 hear the Lap
landers giving their opinion on the subject of as
tronomy.

III. Their anger. — The world, at all times, has
ridiculed sincere Christians, and those who wished
to instruct it. Often has it persecuted them :
sometimes even it has put them to death. But
they are triumphing in their heavenly country,
where they enjoy the eternal favour of the King
of Ages, in the blessed company of angels and
saints. God grant us the grace to be, one day,
of this happy society.

PARABLE VI.
The Viper- Catcher.

A CERTAIN countryman was very expert in catch
ing vipers, which he afterwards sold to an apothe
cary. One afternoon he was so successful, that
he caught a hundred and fifty. In the evening,
when he returned home, being spent with fatigue,
he went immediately to bed, without taking any
supper. According to his custom, he carried his
vipers alive into his bed-room, and put them into
a barrel, which he stopped up, but not effectually.
In the night, whilst he was asleep, the vipers
forced their prison, and, wanting warmth, they all
made to his bed, and, crawling in between the
sheets, they got upon his body, and covered him
all over, without doing him any harm, and evec

T/te Viper -Catcher.

31

without awaking him, or disturbing him in the
least. As it was his custom to sleep with his arms
out of bed, he was strangely surprised in the
morning (he did not awake till late) to see vipers
twisted all round his arms. " Ah !" exclaimed he,
" I am a dead man ; the vipers have escaped." He
had the prudence, however, not to stir, as he per
ceived they were entwined also round his neck,
legs, thighs, in fine, round every part of his body.
What a condition! Still, he was not disconcerted;
but recommending himself earnestly to God, he
quietly called his servant. When she had opened
the chamber door, — " Dont come in," said he to
her, " but go down stairs, and fill the large kettle
half full of milk ; then make it lukewarm, but no
more. You will bring the kettle, and place it in
the middle of my room, making as little noise as
possible. Don't shut the door — go — make haste

— don't lose a moment." No sooner was

the kettle in the room, than the vipers, smell
ing the milk, begin to let go their hold. He
sees those on his arms untwisting themselves, and
making for the milk ; those on his neck he hears
crawling away ; and presently he finds his legs
and all his body at perfect liberty. What in
expressible joy ! He, however, keeps himself quite
composed, giving all the vipers time to leave his
bed. At length, seeing them all safe in the kettle,
he gets up ; and finding them almost drowned, and
quite stupified, he takes them out with a pair of
nippers, one by one, and cuts off their heads.
Immediately, falling on his knees, he gives hearty
thanks to God, for having delivered him from so
imminent a danger. This duty performed, he

32 The Viper- Catcher.

goes down and relates what had just happened to
him. The recital caused him, and all that heard
him, to shudder. The vipers he sent to the apo
thecary, desiring the person that took them to tell
him he must not expect any more from
him. In fact, he gave up his trade, and con
ceived so strong an aversion to vipers, that he
could not bear the sight of them, but the
name even, or the thought of them, distressed
him.

A story so terrible and alarming deserves to be
minutely examined and meditated on.

I. The condition of this man in his bed. — When
I consider this man covered all over with living
vipers, my blood goes cold, and the bare idea
makes me shudder. What a situation ! Can a
more dreadful one be conceived ? Yes, that of a
soul in mortal sin, is a thousand times more dread
ful. When I consider a sinner, either sleeping
quietly in his bed, or acting with full liberty, dur
ing the course of the day, and reflect that a thou
sand mortal sins, and as many demons worse than
vipers, possess his soul, being entire masters of it ;
and that his whole body, and all the senses of his
body, are not surrounded only, but filled and pe
netrated by them, I am seized with horror and
affright. The wretched sinner is not sensible of
the horror of his state ; he is as one asleep. Nei
ther was the viper-catcher sensible of his danger ;
he likewise slept. Is the condition of either of
them less dreadful on that account ?

II. His danger during his sleep Had this

man, during his sleep, moved in the least, which
is usually the case j if, turning, he had crushed

The Viper- Catcher.

33

any one of these animals ; if, by a deep breath,
a sigh, or a word, he had disturbed these monsters,
he would have been lost; and had he had a thou
sand lives he could not have saved one — And,
should the sinner happen to die suddenly in his
present state ; should any of those accidents
which daily occur, befal him, where would he be ?
Where are they to whom these accidents have
happened ? If they were in a state of mortal sin,
they are lost for ever. — It would certainly be a
very cruel death, to be devoured by a hundred
and fifty vipers ; but what is that, after all, in
comparison of hell, where the wretched sinner is
the constant prey of devils, of his sins, of remorse,
of despair, of eternal flames ?

III. The affright of this man on awaking. —
Sinner, you will not always sleep ; you will awake
at your death, when summoned by God to Judg
ment. And what will be your dismay, on finding
yourself the enemy of God, a rebel, an imitator
of Satan, a man of sin, fit for nothing but the
flames of hell, that are ready to receive you, there
to dwell for ever ? Ah I do not sleep on till this
fatal moment arrive : it will be too late for you.
Awake now, whilst you have it in your power to
remove from your bosom the vipers, you there
conceal and entertain, and which are waiting to
devour you. You have seen the countryman's
danger ; and you cannot deny, that yours is even
greater than his. Consider now, how he extri
cated himself, that you may do the like.

IV. His prudence. — He did not lose courage —
he conceived the only expedient capable of suc
ceeding ; and this expedient did succeed. In

34 The Viper- Catcher.

like manner, in considering the dreadful state of
your soul, do not you lose courage, do not give
yourself up to despair ; do not say with Cain —
" My iniquity is too great to hope for pardon."
Were you a thousand times a greater sinner than
you are, the mercy of God being infinite, would
be infinitely greater than your sins. You have
no need to look out, and contrive the means of
freeing yourself from your sins ; this is already
done for you, and the mercy of God offers it you.
It is the blood of Jesus Christ, in which you must,
as it were, drown all your sins, by a good con
fession. Let not this word disturb you, keep
yourself composed : do not look upon this work
as impossible, or too difficult. God does not re
quire impossibilities ; and he will help you to do
what you have to do. In the first place confess
the sins you remember : afterwards endeavour
deliberately to discover the others ; and give time
to all the vipers to go out. Do not be afraid : they
will all leave you.

V. His joy on seeing himself delivered. This
joy must certainly have been great ; but it is no
thing in comparison with that, which a sinner, con
verted and restored to the favour of his God, ex
periences. But who can comprehend the joy,
that will fill this sinner's soul, when being for ever
delivered from all his enemies, he shall be invited
to enter into the joy of his Lord? Ah! how will
he then congratulate himself for having freed him
self from his sins ; for having renounced, con
fessed, detested and expiated them.

VI. His resolution. He cuts off the head of
every viper, without sparing one. He entirely

The Beam in the Water. 35

gives up a trade, which was near being his ruin.
In a word, he conceives an eternal aversion to
what had placed him in so great danger. You un
derstand what all this means : put it then in prac
tice. Flee sin, as you would the sight of an adder,
or a viper.

PARABLE VII.
The Beam in the Water.

Two countrymen brought to a certain town, two
cart loads of wood for sale. The wood being sold,
they went to take a walk by the side of the river.
Observing a beam in the water, pushed along by
a youth, with one hand, towards a certain place
on the shore. " What wood can that be," said they
to one another, " for a child to steer it where he
pleases r" The master carpenter, who was wait
ing for the boy to bring the balk to the edge, hear
ing this discourse of the two countrymen, thus
accosted them ; " My friends, if you wish to know
what wood this balk is, and how light it is, let
us strike a bargain. When my boy has brought
it to the edge of the river, if you two can draw it
quite out of the water for me, I will give you
twelve francs ;* but, if you cannot, you shall put
your horses to it, to draw it out, and give me six
francs, which we will spend in a dinner at yonder
inn." The proposal seemed advantageous. " If
the beam," said one of the countrymen, " be so

* About I Os.

36

2 he Beam in the Water.

thin and light, that the boy can guide it hither
without help, it will be a sad pity, if we two can
not draw it out." The bargain was agreed to,
and the money deposited in the hands of the land
lady, who was come to the place to wash some
linen, and was much surprised at the simplicity
of the countrymen. The beam being arrived at
the appointed place, the two countrymen, one on
each side, set about drawing it out of the water :
but, after having hauled and pulled for a long time
to no purpose, they at last owned themselves
overcome. They had nothing to do, but to draw
the beam out with their horses, and pay for the
dinner.

The small and trivial faults which we discover
in others, our Lord in the Gospel calls motes ; and
the grievous and weighty transgressions, which
we ourselves are guilty of, he calls beams. A
beam, sailing on the water, does not appear what
it is, either as to its thickness or weight. With
respect to its thickness, one half of it is hid un
der the water : and as to its weight, a child may
move it and guide it where he pleases. But, when
it is to be drawn out of the water, then are dis
covered its real thickness and heavy weight.

This life is a vast ocean, on which we are all
sailing, and with us the sins with which we are
loaded. These sins do not appear half what they
are. We hide a part of them from the sight of
men, under a deceitful exterior ; and many do we
hide from ourselves, by dissembling, excusing, or
forgetting them. Besides, those we do perceive
seem light and trifling, because they swim, as it
were, in the waters of the false maxims of the

Empedocles on Mount Etna. 3 7

world, arid in the tide of bad example, which au
thorises them. But when the time comes for us
to draw them out of this water, in order to pre
sent them before the tribunal of God, then they
will appear what they are, of enormous bulk and
weight. When those tricks of trade, those secret
frauds, those artful calumnies, those perverse inten
tions, shall be drawn out of the water, and con
fronted, not with the customs of the world, but
with the law of the gospel ; not with the corrup
tion of men, but with the sanctity of God ; then,
yes, then will be seen their enormity ; then will
be felt their immense weight. Let us, therefore,
efface them by repentance, before we leave this
world, that we may not be overwhelmed by them
when we appear before our God.

Sin appears light and trifling, when we commit
it, but heavy and enormous, when we come
to confess it. How then will it appear, if we
carry it unrepented of before the tribunal of God ?

PARABLE VIII.

Empedocles on Mount Etna.

ETNA is a mountain of Sicily,* which continually
emits vast quantities of fire and flame. This is a
true image of hell; and an image too of that
impure flame which leads thither. I therefore
compare this burning mountain to assemblies,

* Sicily is an island in the Mediterranean Sea, pleasant
and fertile. In the middle is Mount Etna, the most cele
brated volcano in the world. It has sometimes thrown its

C

38 Empedocles on Mount Etna.

balls, plays, which like so many Etnas, are al
ways surrounded with flames, causing a confla
gration in every heart. Besides these, how many
individual Etnas are there, some on the gay pa
rade and public walks, others in our domestic
circles, whose fires are equally dangerous. All
these cannot be too much dreaded, nor too care
fully avoided. To approach them, is to wish to
perish in them. Whoever fears sin, ought to avoid
the occasions of sin.

Empedocles, a clelebrated ancient philosopher,
but more famous for his death, than for his life
and writings, was curious to take a near view
of the fires of Mount Etna. He wished of him
self to know the nature of these fires ; how they
issued from the mountain, and what vestiges they
left behind them. He wished to see the top of
the mountain, to know the nature of the soil, to
examine the construction of the place, and to as
certain the truth of what others had said of them.
In a word, he wished to talk wisely about them :
riot from what others had said of them, but from
his own actual observation.

More than once did his disciples endeavour to
dissuade him from an enterprise so dangerous and
rash. They represented to him, that all who had
attempted to survey the mountain, had perished in

ashes to the distance of eighty miles. Sicily is separated
from Italy by the Strait of Messina, famous for the Scylla
and Charybdis of the ancients ; the former a rock, the
latter a whirlpool. This island helongs to the King of
Naples. The chief cities are Palermo, (where the Viceroy
r /sides,) Messina, and Syracuse. This last was once famous
for its wealth and magnificence.

Empedocles on Mount Etna. 39

the attempt ; that one ought to be satisfied with
knowing of this mountain, what could be made
out from a distance, and without risk ; and as to
the rest, to reason about it from conjecture, not
from experience. They represented to him, that
the summit must be calcined, and that, while he
thought he was placing his foot on solid ground,
there was danger of his placing it on an abyss
of ashes, and of being swallowed up. They re
presented to him, in fine, that the fire not always
issuing from the same part of the mountain, a
sudden eruption might take place under his feet,
burn him alive, and reduce him to ashes, even be
fore he reached the bottom of the abyss.

Empedocles answered, that they were too easily
alarmed ; that their fears exaggerated the danger,
which was not near so great as they represented ;
that a philosopher ought not to suffer himself to
be intimidated, like common people ; that if they
who had ascended before him, had perished there,
it was because they did not go thither like philo
sophers, and with the necessary precautions; that,
as for himself, he had taken safe measures, and
ran no risk ; that he would see and examine every
thing ; that he should return safe and sound, and
would bring them an account of his discoveries.

The philosopher did not say what the measures
were that he intended to adopt ; they would have
appeared too ridiculous. They were only two :
the first, to carry with him a walking-stick, for the
purpose of examining the ground, before he trod
on it ; the second, to go barefoot, that he might
know whether the ground was hot, or began to be
so, in order to have it in his power to withdraw
before an eruption took place.

40 Empedocles on Mount Etna.

Wherefore, one fine morning, Empedocles,
without saying a word to any one, takes his stick,
and sets off to the mountain. He leaves his san
dals at the bottom, and climbs barefoot to the sum
mit. It happened that two of his disciples had,
at the same time, taken a walk to a neighbouring
mountain, for the purpose of enjoying the fresh
air : these were much surprised to see a man walk
ing on the top of Mount Etna. They concluded
it to be their master, and were horror-struck at
the danger to which he was exposed. But what
could be done ? Nothing could dissuade him from
his enterprise. They, therefore, contented them
selves with following him with their eyes, and ob
serving what might become of him.

Having reached the summit, Empedocles was
enchanted at the novelty of the scene before
him. He there saw a thousand objects, curious,
and deserving the attention of an amateur ; but
which, in the eyes of every other person, would
have appeared hideous and contemptible. To his
astonished sight, calcined rocks, mountains of
ashes, presented themselves : he saw pools of
melted and stinking sulphur, holes and crevices,
through which at that moment, flames were ac
tually bursting forth to a prodigious height.

Empedocles walked round this terrible volcano
with more than philosophic intrepidity. His stick
saved him from more than one abyss ; and his
feet more than once warned him to change his si
tuation. He had even sometimes the consolation
to see the seasonableness of the change, the fire
darting|forth with a burst from the very place he
had the moment before quitted. He was applaud
ing himself for what he had done, and was pre-

Empedocles on Mount Etna. 41

paring to descend, replete with the idea of the
honour and glory that would accrue to him, for
having been able, without fear and without acci
dent, to explore the whole of this famous moun
tain, which no mortal before him had attempted
without losing his life ; and to have it in his power
to say, in recounting its marvellous curiosities :
" I have been there ; I have seen them." While
he is taken up with these thoughts, and taking
another glance at the objects which struck him
most, and a description of which he proposed
giving, he was not sufficiently attentive to the
warning of his feet, or perhaps his feet did not
give him a timely warning ; for there burst forth
under him a whirlwind of flames, which carried
his half burnt stick far from him. As for himself,
whether he was consumed in the flames, or swal
lowed up, or both, is not known. All that is
known is, that he never appeared more, nor was
any part of him ever found.

His disciples, witnesses of this terrible catas
trophe, ran immediately to the place where they
saw the stick fall ; and having found it, they dis
covered to their extreme sorrow, that it was their
master's walking-stick. They afterwards went
round the mountain, to see if they could not find
ny of his limbs scattered about ; but they found
nothing but his sandals, which, with the stick,
they deposited in the Temple of Prudence, to
warn those that should see them, that true pru
dence consists in keeping out of the way of dan
ger, and in using suitable precautions, when the
danger is unavoidable.

42

PARABLE IX.

Women.

A LADY, of strong sense and exalted piety, said
one day to a youg canon, in presence of a large
company : " I have heard an observation made
upon you, Reverend Sir, which is certainly not
to your disadvantage. People say, that whether
in the street, or in the house, you never look a
woman in the face." " Madam," replied the
canon, " women are to me, what bayonets are to
women : the more naked and shining they are,
the more they alarm me, and the more eager
am I to take my eyes off them." " You are
right," said the lady ; " bayonets frighten us on
account of the cruel wounds they inflict ; and the
wounds inflicted by women are certainly not less
so." " There is still something else," replied the
canon, " the sight of bayonets cannot, in reality
do any harm ; whereas the mere sight of a woman
may inflict deep wounds ; and, in some instances,
has inflicted wounds incurable." " In that case,"
said the lady, " you might moreover have com
pared women to fire-arms, that carry a great
way." " I could likewise, Madam, compare them
to fire-works, whence issue blazing squibs, that
spread on every side, and burn those, who, think
ing themselves in safety, approach too near." " I
have read on this subject," said one in the com
pany, " a sentence in scripture, the two members
of which do not seem to me to agree. Job some
where says, that he had made a covenant with his

Women. 43

eyes, not even to think of a woman." " The two
members of this sentence," answered the canon,
" agree perfectly well. The meaning is, that the
sure way not to think of a woman, is, not to look
at her." The gentleman who had started this
difficulty, proposed another question. " What do
you think," said he, " of the following story,
which I have somewhere read ? A certain priest,
exorcising a possessed person, asked the devil,
which was the sin that men were most easily
drawn into ?" " There are two in particular,"
replied the fiend, " in which we endeavour to en
tangle them, because we then look upon them as
entirely at our disposal ; and they seldom or ne
ver disengage themselves. The first is, the unjust
possession of other people's property, which they
do not restore even at their death : the second is,
the love of women, of which they are not cor
rected even in extreme old age ; continuing even,
then to sin, if not by actions, at least by looks,
thoughts and desires." " However true the story
may be," subjoined the canon, " it contains at
least a very good moral. Thus to spite the devil,
let us preserve ourselves from both these sins : and
to prove him a lying spirit, let those who have
the unhappiness to be engaged in either, or both
of these vices, take effectual measures to disengage
and correct themselves." As the young canon said
this, he got up to retire. " We see plainly,"
said the lady to him, " that you will not only not
look at women, but that you do not even like
their company for any length of time." " Ma
dam," answered the canon, " I find nothing in
my present company, but what is agreeable and

44 Pious Cheat of a Capuchin.

edifying ; but I hear the bells summoning me.
Our first virtue, from which we ought to fear be
ing diverted by women, is exactness in perform
ing our duties."

PARABLE X.
Pious Cheat of a Capuchin.

A YOUNG gentleman, of amiable manners and
great possessions, had paid his addresses to a
young lady of rare accomplishments and immense
fortune. Every thing was settled for their mar
riage, and they only waited the arrival of a rela
tion, to celebrate the nuptials. In the mean time,
the young gentleman had a short journey to
make, which would require him to be absent for
a few days : but, before he set off, he made the
lady a present of his portrait, set in a beautiful
gold snuff-box. The lady, on her side, deter
mined to send her portrait also to her intended,
before his return.

She knew a Capuchin, who excelled in minia
ture painting ; and, as she wished her portrait to
be executed in a masterly manner, she addressed
herself to him. The father, at first, refused, say
ing, that if he had any talent that way, he did not
choose to employ it for such a purpose. After re
peated solicitations, however, the father suffered
himself to be prevailed on, and undertook to do it.

He painted no more, at first, than the head,
and sent it to the lady for her approbation. A
finer head could not possibly be — the young lady

Pious Cheat of a Capuchin. 45

raptures — she shewed it to her friends, and
to every one that came to the house : all agreed
they had never seen any thing so beautiful, and
so well executed. She sent it back to the father,
accompanied with a handsome present, begging
of him to finish so excellent a work, and to send
it her back as soon as possible.

In fact, the father did finish it — but how ? in
stead of painting a beautiful figure under so fine a
head, he painted a skeleton with all the niceness
and perfection of his art, and sent it back to the
lady. She undid the parcel with eagerness: but —
when she saw this shocking thing appended to the
head, she became so outrageous, that, had the
Capuchin been within her reach, she would have
disfigured him. She was loud in her complaints,
demanded signal vengeance on the man who had
played her so shameful a trick.

She, however, took delight in looking at the
head ; but not being able to admire it, without at
the same time, seeing the object of horror, she
again became furious, and vented her anger against
the father, and against the whole order of Capu
chins. Nevertheless, the skeleton by degrees
lost many of its terrors. Alas ! said she, after
all, am I not one day or other to come to this ?
It was not a [trick the good father wished to play
me, but rather a lesson he intended^to give me:
let me profit by it. Whilst she was employed in
these reflections, she heard the bell at the Car
melites' ring for Benediction. Thither she goes
— the skeleton recurs to Aher mind — she sheds
tears — she hesitates — at length she determines : —
" e enters among the nuns, and takes the habit.

c 2

<b

46 Pious Cheat of a Capuchin.

From hence she sends her picture to her lover,
and writes to him the reflections she had made,
and the part she had taken, exhorting him to do
as much.

The young gentleman, on receiving this news,
becomes distracted, leaves every other business,
and comes home. He hastens to the convent, and
demands an audience with the young lady. She
sends him word, that she is too much engaged to
come down into the parlour ; that he has her por
trait and her letter ; that he may look at them
both, and then make his reflections. More enraged
at this answer, he hurries to the Capuchins, and
asks for the painter, but he was no longer there ;
he had foreseen the storm, and was gone to ano
ther convent. He then asks to see the Father
Guardian, who, having received the first volley of
his abuse, mildly exhorted him to patience, and
gave him to understand, that all this was an effect
of Providence, wishing to detach him from the
world, that he might fix his affections upon God
alone.

The young man, overpowered by fatigue, un
easiness, and vexation, returns home, and throws
himself upon his bed, to take a little repose : but
his soul was two much agitated to allow it. He
takes from his pocket the letter — then the portrait :
-^-he looks first at one, and then at the other :
— he sighs — he sheds tears. After a few moments
silence — " What a fool I am," said he to himself,
" to fix my heart on corruption, whilst I have it
in my power to love God ; to attach myself to the
earth, while I can gain heaven. Come, I will not
be overcome by a woman : I will, at least, sum-

Definition of the present Life. ' 47

mon the courage to imitate her." Saying this, he
rises, goes and throws himself at the feet of the
Father Guardian, communicates to him his de
termination, and asks for the habit.

As soon as he had received it, he wrote to the
Carmelite, to inform her of his change, and to
recommend himself to her prayers. The answer
of the Carmelite was in the same style. From
that time, they neither saw one another, nor did
they write to one another ; but, after a long life
spent in unabated fervour, they both died on the
same day, in the odour of sanctity.

What happiness do they now enjoy in the
blessed mansions of eternity! If we wish to par
take in their happiness, let us think as they did,
and put our reflections in practice.

PARABLE XI.

Definition of the present Life.

A PHILOSOPHER was one day asked, what this
life was, and he answered: "It is the journey a cri
minal makes (after his sentence has been read to
him) from prison to the place of execution." In
fact, we are all condemned to death from our mo
ther's womb ; and from the time of our birth, we
are continually advancing towards the place of
punishment. Our eyes, to be sure, are not co
vered with bandages, as are those of criminals,
but which is the same thing, the place of punish
ment is hidden from us. We are continually mak
ing towards it, without knowing where it is, or
whether we are near it, or at a distance from it,

48 The Oracle of Delphi.

All that we know is, that we approach nearer and
nearer to it every day; and that we shall reach it
before we are aware. It may be, we are there
now, or only one step from it.

One thing, besides, of which we are ignorant,
is the kind of death to which we are condemned,
that not being specified in the sentence, and known
only to Almighty God. Will it be mild, or se
vere ? Will it be sudden, or protracted ? Shall
we, or shall we not, have time to enter into our
selves, and place our affairs in order ? Of all this
we know nothing.

What is really astonishing, is, that, being un
der the sentence of death during our journey from
our prison to the place of our punishment, we
should sin, laugh, joke, and fool away our time
in empty projects and childish enterprises. But,
does it not often happen, that people, in the midst
of their pleasures and enterprises, reach the term
which they imagined to be far distant ; and that
they are obliged to undergo their last punishment
unprepared, because they never allowed it a place
in their thoughts.

PARABLE XII.

The Oracle of Delphi*

WHEN the ancient philosophers had any fa-

* Delphi, now Castri, a town of Phocis, situate in a val
ley at the S. W. side of Mount Parnassus. It was famous
for a Temple of Apollo aud for an Oracle, celebrated in
every age and country.

The Oracle of Delphi. 49

vourite dogma, that they wished to be credited
and adopted, they always gave it out as received
from some oracle. Over these oracles the devil
presided, who. cannot be supposed to have uttered
truths, such as they wished their dogmas to be
thought.

It is said that Zenof, wishing to lead a virtuous
life, went to consult the Delphic oracle, to know
what he was to do, to live in the constant practice
of virtue ; and that the oracle gave him this an
swer : " Consult the dead."

In fact, for a Christian in particular, there is no
means more efficacious, and more easy to reform
his life, and more conducive to preserve him in
the practice of virtue, than the thought of death
and eternity. Did we but consult our relations
and friends, that are already dead, and those whom
we have seen die, and attended to the grave, and
ask them what we have to do ; what would their

f Zeno was the founder of the sect of the Stoics. His
school at Athens was attended by the great, the learned,
and the powerful. His life was an example of soberness
and moderation ; his morals were austere; and to his tem
perance and regularity he was indebted for the continual
How of health which he enjoyed. After he had taught pub
licly for 48 years, he died in the 98th year of his age, B.C.
264. — An arbitrary command over the passions was one of
therules of Stoicism. TheStoiccould view with indifference
health or sickness, riches or poverty, pain or pleasure ;
none of which could either move or influence the serenity
of his mind. It was his duty to study himself: in the
evening, he was enjoined to review, with critical accuracy
the events of the day ; and to regulate his future conduct
with more care, and always to find an impartial witness
within his own breast.

50 The Oracle of Delphi.

answer be ? How holy would our life be, how

sweet and pleasant our death, did we but listen
to and follow the lessons the dead would give us.

The more useful the thought of death is towards
regulating our lives, the more does man, an ene
my to restraint, divert his thoughts from it, by
living in an entire forgetfulness of it. But the
wisest people, as well whole nations as individuals,
Pagans as well as Christians, have been careful to
recall, by divers devices, so salutary a thought,
being persuaded, that, though we forget death,
death does not forget us.

Formerly, in China, on the eve of the coronation
of an emperor, each of the sculptors of the city
of Pekin presented to him a piece of marble, for
him to choose which he would have his tomb made
of, as they had to begin to work at it from the
very day of his coronation. The sculptor, on
whose marble the emperor fixed his choice, was
the same that had to work it ; and the town paid
him in advance. This ceremony was attended
with a great deal of pomp, and was, for the peo
ple, but particularly for the emperor, an important
lesson. Let it be such to you ; and reflect, that
round about you, all nature is incessantly at work
preparing you a grave.

At the ceremony of the coronation of the Kings
of Abyssinia,* they were presented with a vase
filled with earth, arid a death's head, to admonish
them of what they were one day to come to, with-

* Abyssinia is a large empire of Africa. It is exceedingly
fertile, and abounds both in wild and tame auimals. The
capital is Gonda.

The Oracle of Delphi. 51

out the crown being able to preserve them from
the common lot of man.

At this day, at the installation of the Roman
Pontiff, a clerk carries a little tow at the top of a
reed, and, lighting the tow at a wax taper, he
burns it before the Pontiff, saying : Holy Father,
thus passes away the glory of the world."

Philip, King of Macedonia,! and father of
Alexander the Great, had given orders to one of
his pages to say to him three times each morning:
" Sire, remember you are a man." This word
alone says every thing.

The emperor Maximilian I. had his coffin made
four years before his death. He kept it in his bed
room ; and when he travelled, he always took it
with him. He found it a useful monitor : and
having followed its counsels during life, he saw
undisturbed the moment arrive, when he was
shortly to be shut up in it.

The Cathusians greet one another in this man
ner : " Remember death ;" because there is no
thing more powerful than this remembrance, to
make us persevere in the rugged paths of virtue,
by keeping constantly in our mind, that our suf
ferings will soon be over, and followed by eternal
happiness, delivering us from eternal evils.

St. Bernard was accustomed to repeat fre
quently to himself during the day : " If thou wert

f Macedonia, formerly a celebrated kingdom of Europe
under Philip and Alexander, is now a province of Turkey.
The air is clear, sharp, and wholesome ; and the soil, for
the most part, fertile. The capital is Salonichi, the an
cient Thessalonica.

52 The Popes Penitent.

to die to-day, wouldst thou do that?*' And, when
he began any good action, or any work of obli
gation, he used to ask himself: " Wert thou to
die after this action, how wouldst thou do it ?"
Thus, by a constant remembrance of death, he
kept himself in unabated fervour.

PARABLE XIII.
The Pope's Penitent.

A GENTLEMAN of great family, but a great sin
ner, determined at last to be converted. For this
purpose, he went to Rome, and wished much to
have the comfort of making his confession to the
Pope. The Pope heard him, and was edified at
the accuracy of his confession, the liveliness of
his sorrow, arid the generosity of his resolutions.
But when the Pope proposed his penance, the pe
nitent could not submit to any. As for fasting,
he had not strength to fast; for reading and prayer,
he had no time ; making a retreat, undertaking a
pilgrimage, interfered with his other business.
To watching and lying on the ground he objected,
because his health would not allo\v it. Besides,
there was another reason for complying with none,
which he did not mention ; and that was, his dig
nity. What was to be done ? The Pope gave
him a gold ring, on which were engraven these
two words: — "Memento mori — remember thou
must die :" and the penance he imposed on him
was, to wear this ring on his finger, and to read
the words that were on it at least once a day.

The Thread of Life. 53

The gentleman withdrew very well satisfied,
congratulating himself on the trifling penance he
had got : but this was a preparation and intro
duction to all the others. The thought of death
entered so forcibly, and with so good effect, into
his mind, as to discover to him the mortality of
his present state, and he cried out : " Well ! since
I must die, what else have I to do in this world,
than prepare myself for a good death ? What use
is there in caressing a body, that will soon be the
food of worms ? Why be so careful of my health,
which death will at length destroy ? The effect
of these reflections was, that every kind of pe
nance, after this, appeared trifling and easy to him.
He embraced them all, and persevered in the prac
tice of them till his death, which was precious in
the sight of God, edifying to his neighbour, and
full of comfort to himself.

Ah ! did we but seriously reflect on this sen
tence — " I am to die ;" — did we but draw the just
conclusions, resulting from it — " Since I am to
die ;" — did we pay serious attention to the admo
nition it gives us- -" Am I not to die ?';

As to the rest, let not these terrible words alarm
you. Only take your measures, and death will
have no terrors for you.

PARABLE XIV.

The Thread of Life.

OUR eternal happiness, or misery, depends on our
death ; our death depends on our life ; — and our
life hangs but by a thread. But this thread is

54 The Thread of Life.

very weak, and easily broken, cut, or burnt. This
thread fails us at the time \ve expect it the least :
sometimes, when we think it is the strongest ; and
sometimes, by the very means we employ to
strengthen and secure it ; as you shall see in the
tragical end of Don Carlos, King of Navarre.*
The relation cannot fail to excite in us feelings of
horror and astonishment.

No man could be more enslaved to the shameful
vices of the flesh, than was this king. Finding
himself, at last, worn out with his debaucheries,
and utterly incapable of pursuing his excesses, he
consulted his physicians. They prescribed, that
his whole body should be covered with a sheet
soaked with brandy, to remain four and twenty
hours in this sheet stitched fast about him. The
king would have the operation performed by the
youngest and dearest of his mistresses, but who
was, at the same time, the most giddy and thought
less. This woman, having finished sewing the
sheet on the king's body, and not having her
scissars at hand to cut off the thread, had the im
prudence to take the wax candle to burn k. The
thread, being impregnated with brandy, took fire;
which, communicating with the sheet, set the
whole of it in a blaze. What an uproar was there
in the palace! what hurry! what confusion! Every
thing was done to save the king, but to no pur
pose ; he wast burnt to death before any assist
ance could be afforded. What a life ! what a
death ! what an eternity !

* Navarre, formerly a kingdom of Europe, lies partly
in Spain, and partly in France, and is divided into the Up
per and Lower. The upper belongs to Spain, the lower to
France.

55

PARABLE XV.
Singular Taste of a King of the Bulgarians.

BOGORIS, a king of Bulgaria,* was fond of every
thing frightful and terrific. To be in places the
most dismal and hideous, was his delight ; and to
hunt the most ferocious animals, was quite an
amusement to him. The hangings, pictures, and
carvings in his palace, each represented some ob
ject of terror.

Being informed of a monk in the neighbourhood
named Jerome, that excelled in the art of paint
ing, he went to him, and desired him to draw a
picture according to his taste, that is to say, the
most frightful that he could imagine. The father
complied with his wishes, and chose for his sub
ject the last judgment. The sovereign Judge,
seated on a cloud, and surrounded by his angels,
appeared with an air of majesty and indignation,
that had something in it at once charming and
confounding. On his right hand were the just,
beaming with glory; and on his left, sinners, pale,
dismayed, affrighted, in expectation of their final
sentence. Towards the bottom of the picture
were devils, represented in shapes the most hi
deous and frightful. They appeared furious and
threatening, being armed with all sorts of instru
ments of torture. Beneath yawned a frightful gulf,
whence darted forth horrible whirlwinds of flame.

* Bulgaria, a mountainous province of Turkey in Eu-
B, the vallies of which produce some corn and wine.

56 77tf incredulous Marquis.

The infidel king, at the first sight of this pi<
ture, was quite delighted; and he declared he h
never seen any thing, either so beautiful, or
terrible. But as he did not know what it repi
sented, he requested the monk to explain eacl
particular part to him. This Father Jerome di(
with so much energy and unction, that the prince,
more alarmed even at the explanation, than at tlu
picture itself, embraced Christianity ; and was sc
penetrated with a sense of the judgments of Goc
that ever after, upon undertaking any thing,
when any state business was deliberated in coun
cil, he used to say : " Let us remember, that win
we are going to do will be examined at the j
ment-seat of God."

PARABLE XVI.
The incredulous Marquis.

WHILST Father Jerome, as mentioned in th<
preceding parable, was explaining to the King and
the whole court the truths of the Christian Re
ligion, and particularly that of the last judgment,
a lord of the court, a Marquis, who was a relation
of the king's, a free-thinker, and a very profligate
man, was employed in combating what the Father
said, and in proposing, chiefly against the last
judgment, subtle objections and perplexing ques
tions, which the new catechumen could not an
swer.

The king insisted, that the marquis should
propose his difficulties to Father Jerome, in pre-

Tlie incredulous Marquis. 57

scnce of the whole court, and that the father should
answer them. The marquis having spoken for a
long time, with a great deal of fluency and much
warmth, but without any order, the father resumed
his discourse, which he reduced to three principal
points, viz. The resurrection of the body ; the
manifestation of consciences; and the confusion of
sinners ; and replied as follows, addressing him
self to the marquis.

" First, as to the resurrection of the body. —
Every thing you have advanced, my Lord, against
the resurrection of the body, is no ways difficult
to one who has a just idea of the power of God,
and who believes this power infinite, as you your
self do. He, who gave life to every thing that
breathes, can likewise restore that life when he
pleases: one and the other are equally easy to him.
However dispersed the ashes of the dead may be,
they are not beyond the power of his arm: he will
know how to find them again, to separate them,
and to reunite them.

" What you object as to the identity of bo
dies, to prove that it is impossible for each of us
to rise again with the same body, will not be any
more difficult to one, who is sensible of his own
weakness and ignorance, and has, at the same time,
a just idea of the omnipotence of God. For, it
is a lamentable thing, that we, who understand
not the things in this world, which we see, should
wish to comprehend every thing in the next, which
we do not see, and which we know only by faith.

" You say, my Lord, that the same matter will
have belonged successively to several dead bodies;
and you ask, to which it will belong at the general

58 The incredulous Marquis.

resurrection? And do you know, my Lord, whe
ther the same matter may not have belonged suc
cessively to many living bodies ? And does that
prevent every living man from having his own
body, and subsisting in this same body ? You
say, that you had four years ago, a sickness, which
reduced you to such a degree, that you did not
weigh half as much as before your indisposition.
You have, however, recovered your flesh again,
and you now weigh more than you did before your
sickness. Does this prove that you have changed
your body ? Have you the same body, or have
you another ?

" You suppose a child to die immediately after
being baptized, and to be only a foot high: now,
you say, for this child to rise again in its own
body, it must rise in a body only a foot high.
But have not you, my Lord, though now above
six feet high, been a child of a foot, and half a
foot, and even less ? Have you on that account
changed your body? and have you not your own
body, the same that you had when you came into
the world ? Ah ! my Lord, these are mysteries
in this life, and we cannot comprehend them ; why
then wish to comprehend those of the next? Let
us believe in the word, and rest on the wisdom
and power of the Author, both of this world and
the next.

" You then ask, where there will be room to con
tain the immense multitude of bodies, when they
rise again ? My Lord, he who divided the chil
dren of Adam, and dispersed them over the face
of the earth, providing for them subsistence and
every comfort, will know where to place them,

The incredulous Marquis* 59

when he comes to judgment. You had nothing to
do with the first, neither are you disturbed about
it : you will have nothing to do with the second ;
do not then make yourself uneasy about it.

" Lastly, you ask, whether we shall have the
same faces in the next world that we have in this?
My Lord, all these questions answer no end. He,
who made this world with all that order and beau
tiful variety of parts, which we admire, will know
how to make all things in the next conduce to his
glory, to the happiness of his friends, and the pu
nishment of his enemies. The treasures of his
wisdom are not exhausted. Let us put our whole
trust in him, and be only anxious to live and die
in his love.

" Secondly, as to the manifestation of con
sciences. — I pass, my Lord, to the second part
of your attack, the manifestation of consciences ;
and I agree with you, that, for this manifestation
to be entire, it is necessary each one should know
clearly and distinctly what concerns every other
man. He must know their situations, their rela
tions to each other, their natural talents and su
pernatural gifts ; and then their actions, their
thoughts, their desires, their intentions, their
words, their writings, and the consequences of
all these. Besides, we must know the ways of
God, with regard to men in general, and the care
of his particular providence with respect to each
individual. These, and many other things, are
immense in detail ; but still, my Lord, they are
not infinite, nor do they require infinite knowledge
to be understood ; but God can communicate to
every created intelligence that degree of light

60 TA<? incredulous Marquis.

which he shall please ; reserving, however, for
himself, that knowledge which is infinite.

" You repeat over and over again, that this is
incomprehensible. I allow it, my Lord ; but on
this subject, as well as the others, we may form
some idea from natural occurrences. Suppose a
person has been born and brought up in a dungeon,
and had never seen, except by taper-light, the
objects contained in his prison, this person would
not be persuaded, that there is in the world a lu
minary, which gives light, at the same time, to
more than a hundred thousand leagues of country;
and, though he should be assured that this is the
case, and that all those who inhabit this vast tract
of country, see distinctly, and without difficulty,
all the objects it contains, all he could do, would
be to believe without comprehending. The thing,
however, is so, and we see and know it. Now,
the difference there is between the light of a taper
and that of the sun, is less than the difference be
tween the light, which God now communicates to
men, and that which he will communicate to them at
the last day. You ought, then, to have no diffi
culty in believing, that, at the last day, every
thing will be open and distinctly seen : and you
ought not to flatter yourself, that there will be any
of your actions, or thoughts, that will not be known
by every one. We find no difficulty in believing
this truth ; but the consequences of it, are what
alarm and terrify us : but after all, we may still
turn them to our advantage.

" I now answer the question, whether, at the
last day, in heaven or in hell, we shall know one
another again? As to the last day, it is certainly

The incredulous Marquis. 61

manifest, that we shall know one another again ;
for it is impossible the manifestation should be so
clear and entire, as I have shewn it to be, without
our knowing not only those with whom we have
lived, but those too who have gone before, or
those who shall come after us. Now, why should
this knowledge, which God shall have communi
cated to men, upon that day be taken from them,
it being so necessary for the justification of his
providence, for the glory of his saints, and for
the confusion of sinners ? They will not be de
prived of it : it will subsist for ever. Thus, sin
ners will know one another to their misery ; the
saints will know one another to their happiness ;
and both to the glory of God, through endless
ages.

" Thirdly, as to the confusion of sinners, It
remains for me, my Lord, to say a word on the
supposition you make, that the number of sin
ners, at the last judgment, being much greater
than that of the just, the former will not feel
any shame for their crimes. You add, that, in
this world, libertines often boast of their de
baucheries even in the presence of the just. With
out here examining the shame, which, even in
this world, sinners may feel for their sins, on
which much might be said, I answer in three
words : that what sometimes makes sinners bold
and insolent in this world, is their blindness, the
absence of their Judge, and the distance of pu
nishment : but when they shall see the grievous-
ness of sin, their Judge present, and hell ready
to swallow them up, then, my Lord, their con
fusion will be great. And as the fear of all will not

62 The incredulous Marquis.

dimmish the fear, which each one has for himself,
so the general confusion, in which all sinners will
be, will not prevent the particular confusion which
each one will feel.

" Before I conclude, I will answer another
question you ask on the subject. You ask if the
sins of the saints will be manifested ? Certainly
they will ; but it will be for their glory, not
their confusion. Yes, my Lord, they will appear,
effaced by the blood of Jesus, and washed away
by the tears of repentance. Sins, thus atoned for
will not be a blemish, but an ornament, which
will add to the splendor of the saints, be glorious
to Jesus Christ, and increase the confusion of
sinners, because, having had the same means of
effacing their sins, they have not made use of
them. And, as the knowledge we have of the
adultery of David, of the denial of St. Peter, of
the debauchery of St. Augustine, does not in
the least diminish the esteem and respect we have
for these great saints : so the sight of the sins of
the elect will not lessen either their glory or their
happiness."

As soon as Father Jerome had ceased speaking,
the king and whole court came to thank him for
the comfortable instruction he had given them.
As for the marquis, he withdrew, vexed at heart :
and whether through prejudice, or vanity, he per
sisted in his incredulity, and was the only one of
the whole court that did not receive baptism.
Terrible judgment of God! Fatal effect of the
corruption of the human heart, and of a rash cu
riosity, that wishes to fathom mysteries, which it
ought only to believe and adore.

63

PARABLE XVII.
A second Narcissus.

A YOUNG gentleman, who had no brother, and who
had the misfortune to lose his father while he was
yet very young, lived at his seat with his mother
and two sisters. Whilst the mother and her daugh
ters were employed in works of piety and Christian
charity, the young man's whole time was spent
in courting and caressing his body. He would
pass whole days at his toilet. His only care in
the house was curling, powdering, and perfuming
his hair. His mother repeatedly made him an
offer to buy him a regiment: but how could he
consent to enter the army, he who would never
go a hunting, or shooting, for fear of deranging his
curls, or of being scratched by some bramble.
This love of his body had, however, in him, one
good effect : it kept him entirely from every sort
of debauchery ; for he always guarded against ex
cess of every kind, for fear it should impair his
health, or destroy the bloom of his countenance.
This singular mode of life drew upon him many
reproaches and railleries: but. this second Nar
cissus always comforted himself before his looking-
glass, admiring his own sweet person, and that
blooming appearance of health, in which he placed
all his happiness and glory.

One day, Father Basil, superior of a neigh
bouring monastery, a man of great penetration,
and mortified life, called at the castle, and they
prevailed on him to stop dinner. It was hinted

64 A second Narcissus.

to him by the young ladies, that, during dinner,
he should try to inspire their brother with more
manly and more Christian sentiments. The de
sert, however, was served, before a word was said
on the subject. The elder of the ladies, impatient
at the Father's silence, began by asking, whether
it was not a shame for a young man, and much
more for a gentleman, to employ his whole time
about his body ? " Miss," replied the Father,
" the body is a great part of the man. It is by
the body that man lives in this world ; that he is
visible to other men, and keeps up his intercourse
with them. It is by the body, that man receives the
most lively sentiments of pleasure and pain ; that
he communicates with all the other bodies in the
universe; that he acts upon them, and is acted upon
by them. Of all the bodies, which the Almighty
has created, the human body is certainly the most
beautiful and admirable, without excepting even
the stars of the firmament. A body well made,
exact in its proportions, healthy, active, and ro
bust, a mien noble and majestic ; and at the
same time, mild and interesting ; a face, all the parts
of which have their charms, and all the features
their beauty and regularity, and all this covered
with a fine skin and beautiful complexion, and a
head erect and adorned with fine hair : there is
not, I repeat it, any thing in the world so beauti
ful. A person possessing all these advantages,
would be universally admired, and there is nobody
but would he glad to possess them. Therefore, I
think that the body, this essential part of man,
deserves all our cares, all our attention, and all
our thoughts."

A second Narcissus. 65

The young gentleman was in raptures all the
time the Father was speaking : and from such a
beginning the young ladies thought themselves
betrayed ; and this idea put them a little out of
humour with the Father. The one that had pro
posed the question to him, said : " Indeed, Father,
you lay down exellent morality : I am sure we
had no reason to expect such from you." " This
morality," said the mother, " is just to the taste
of my son." " But," said the youngest, with some
warmth, you are in this instance, Father, in con
tradiction with yourself. You, who exhorts
others to take care of their body, what care do
you take of yours ? You clothe your body with
a coarse sack ; you make it go barefoot through
thick and thin, in the depth of winter : you over
power it with work ; you emaciate it by fasting ;
you bruise it with blows ; and you give it no rest
either by day or night ; is this the care you
take of your body ?" " The care 1 take ?" replied
the Father ; " that is quite a different thing : — I
expect another at the General Resurrection."
" And do we not all/' said the young man expect
the Resurrection ?" « Ah ! if that is the case,"
answered theFather, "take care what you are about.
We cannot place all our happiness in our body
here, and look for a better at the Resurrection.
It is by now subjecting the body to penance ; it is
by immolating it to the service of God ; it is by
making it serve, work, and suffer for God, that we
ensure its being given back to us, at the Resur
rection, a thousand times more beautiful than the
one I have described to you : and beside this, it
will be immortal and impassable, and by so much

D 2

66 A second Narcissus.

the more charming in the other world, as it shall
have been humbled and mortified in this.

" When I was young," continued the Father,
" I was a great admirer of my body ; I thought
of nothing but it. I was told I was pretty, and I
believed it. I liked to be told so : and I loved
them that did tell me so. At the age of fifteen, I
had the small pox. This disease alarmed and
vexed me sorely, and made me think a great deal.
Ah! my God, said I to myself, all the love I
have had for my body, and all the attention I
have paid it, have not been able to secure me from
so frightful a disease, which will entirely disfigure
me, and make me not to be known again ! And
it will be the same with all the other changes,
which other people experience, and which I like
wise shall be obliged to undergo. I then began
to consider every age ; and I found, that in each,
the body undergoes some change, depriving it at
every change, of some of its beauty, without any
one being able to impede the course of nature,
which drags us along with rapidity, in spite of
ourselves, towards old age and death ; often
closing our existence even before we reach old age.
This thought caused me to shed tears ; and I fell
asleep. During my sleep, somebody seemed to
whisper in my ear : " Do not cry my child ; use
thy body in holiness during thy life, emploj' it,
without sparing it, in the service of thy God, and
in the performance of all the duties of thy state ;
bear, without disturbing thyself, all the changes
that may happen to it, all sickness, all the infir
mities it may undergo : the squeamishness of old
age, and the pains of death : inure it thyself to

?

A second Narcissus. 6?

the rigours of penance, and at the day of the Ge
neral Resurrection, God will restore it to thee
perfect and resplendent, unchangeable, impassable,
and immortal, and thou wilt enjoy this glorified
body in Heaven, throughout eternity." Saying
this, Father Basil took his leave.

When the Father was gone, our young gentle
man, instead of going up to his room as usual,
retired into the garden ; where he remained a long
time, walking about alone, and musing on what
he had just heard. He afterwards came into the
parlour, where he found his two sisters busy at
work. " Well, Sisters," said he, as he entered,
" what do you think of Father Basil's discourse?"
" That is just," said the eldest, " what my sister
and I are talking about. But, what do you say
of it yourself brother ?"" " I sayy that the Father
is in the right ; and that I am not in the wrong.
You were always telling me, that the body was
nothing, and that 1 must contemn and entirely
undervalue it. You see, on the contrary, as the
Father said, the body is an essential part of our
selves, deserving all our cares, and all our at
tention. It is true, I did not reflect, that the body,
in this world, is but a servant : and that the good
use we shall have made of it, will be the means
of its being given back to us, in the next world,
adorned with other qualities, which will make it,
if I may be allowed the expression, a body of
state parade and magnificence. It is something
like the different dresses you make use of. Some
you have for common use, which you do not
spare, neither do you care for spoiling tfiem ; you
have others rich and brilliant, which you ears-

68 The Poet undeceived.

fully reserve for feast days, and for company/'
" Brother," said the youngest, " you have just hit
on Father Basil's idea. The day of the Resur
rection will be a grand day ; and there will be
present a brilliant assembly. God grant we may
appear there with honour." " Sister," replied the
brother, " that will depend on the use we shall
have made of our body ; we have it in our power
to make it a living victim, agreeable to God : it
is given us for that end r let us profit by it/'

They all did profit by it. The brother entered
the army, and fasted every Wednesday and Friday.
He was killed in battle ; and a hair shirt was found
under his uniform. The younger sister became a
model of humility and penance in a monastery,
to which she retired. The eldest remained with
her mother, both leading a life of the most rigid
penance. They all died in the odour of sanctity,
full of the hope of a Glorious Resurrection.

PARABLE XVIII.
The Poet undeceived.

A POET one day went to a Convent of Carthu
sians, to see a relation of his ; after a long con
versation, he at last said to him; "Cousin, I have
just finished a poem, which I think will gain me
some credit. It has cost me much labour; and I
am going to take two more years to polish it, and
make it fit to appear before the public. It will be
better," continued he, " to defer publishing it, to
see what subscribers I can get." " I think," said

The Poet undeceived. 69

the Carthusian, " you would not be against de
ferring the publication of it two years more, could
you have a certainty, that your poem, as soon as
it appeared, would be read and admired by all
Paris, the Court, and all France, would you ?"
" Certainly not/' said the Poet, " and I should
think those four years well employed." " But,"
continued the Carthusian, " should any one ensure
you, that, by deferring it four years more, your
poem would be sought after by all Europe, be
translated into all languages, and be every
where admired, would you not consent to wait
so long ?" " Very willingly," answered the
Poet ; so great glory would well deserve to be
purchased by eight years labour." " But," added
the Father, " if by waiting other eight years, you
were sure that the esteem, which Europe would
have for your work, would not only continue, but
keep increasing even to the end of the worldr would
you still consent to wait that number of years ?"
" Without difficulty," replied the Poet. « Yet,"
says the Father, " that makes sixteen years : and
at your age, do you expect to live long enough,
after the expiration of these sixteen years, to en
joy the glory?" "No," answered the Poet : "but
what does that matter ? The glory, that does
not outlive a man, is nothing- : that only, which
remains after, merits our ambition." " You would,
then, consent to work all your life for a great
glory, which you would not receive till after your
death?" "Undoubtedly," replied the Poet; "and
this is the feeling of every noble soul, and of every
thinking mind." " And if this be the case, my
dear Cousin," subjoined the Father, "what hinders

70 The Poet undeceived.

you from acquiring this great glory, and a glory
too still greater, which will not leave you after death,
but will follow you, and which you will enjoy for
ever ? For this end, you have only to employ
the remainder of your days, not in correcting
your poem, but your morals; and in serving God
with fervour. And, what no one can promise you
for your poem, how correct soever, faith and re
ligion promise you for the correction of your mo
rals, and your fidelity in serving God." " Oh !"
exclaimed the Poet, " I thought what you were
aiming at : but this is not our present business.
You Carthusians entertain only gloomy and re
volting ideas. We are in this life ; and we have
to speak only of the glory of this life : as to the
glory of the next, we do not see it." " But," re
plied the Carthusian, " will you see the glory of
this life, when you are no longer here ? And,
since you must leave this life, and enter into the
other, is it not wiser, to acquire a glory that will
follow you, and which you will enjoy, than a
glory which will outlive you, and which you will
not enjoy ? But, what is this glory, which your
poem may gain you ? What is all the glory of
the world, in comparison with that which a holy
life can procure you? The first is very uncertain,
and nobody would dare insure it to you ; whereas
the second is insured to you by the promise of
God, by religion, by faith. The first will always
be very small and very limited. Though your
name even become famous throughout all France,
all Europe, and posterity, how many individuals
would there be among this number, that would
not be acquainted with your work ? Whereas

The Poet undeceived. 71

the second will be universal ; so that, at the last
day, not only all those who now inhabit France,
and Europe, Asia, Africa, and America; not only
they, who shall live after them, but still all who
have existed since the commencement of the
world, all, without excepting one, will esteem you,
will praise, admire, and respect you. In fine, the
glory of your poem will be short-lived and pe
rishable ; and it cannot extend, at most, further
than the end of the world. After which, there
will be nothing to do with poetry, nor with any
thing that employs mortals here below ; and all
worldly glory will disappear; and nothing will re
main but that true and solid glory, which comes
from God, whose judgment, being founded on
truth and equity, will gain the suffrages of all
created intelligences : and this glory will be eter
nal. Are the desires and the hope of this gloomy
and revolting? Are there any that are more con
soling, more noble, more ravishing? What do
you think?" " I think, cousin, you have given
me an excellent, though rather long sermon."

" Well," said the Carthusian, " let us leave this
topic, and return to your poem. You expect, then,
to give it to the public in two years ?' " Yes, if
God preserves my life." " When you have given
the last touch to it, and it shall appear, do you
expect it will not be criticised ?" *' Oh! supposing
it be. A good work is sure to be criticised ; and
jealousy even often tries to put it down: but I am
under no apprehension. If I am attacked, I will
defend myself." " But," said the Carthusian,
" it\ after taking four years to retouch your poem,
you were sure to place it above all criticism, so

72 The Poet undeceived.

that even they who envy you the most, instead of
censuring, should be obliged to praise you, would
you not wait these four years, before you publish
it ? " Whither," said the Poet, " do you mean
to lead me now, with your suppositions and cal
culations ?" " To true glory," answered the Fa
ther : " to that glory, which no one will dispute
with you; which the whole universe will give you;
and which at the last day, and throughout eter
nity, will force all your enemies to praise you,
and confess that you have done well ; and to be
vexed with themselves for not having done the
same as you." " I readily allow," said the Poet,
" that this would be the best, and that the glory
we hunt after here, and in the pursuit of which we
weary ourselves, is, at bottom, but a chimera, a
phantom, which seduces us. But what would
you have me do? I am a man ; I live with men;
I am foolish with the foolish." "And what hinders
you," replied the Father," from being wise with
the wise ? How many are there, who esteem the
glory of this world as nothing, and whose whole
time is taken up in endeavouring to merit eternal
glory ? You live, it is true, with men ; but how
very soon will you and all now living be in the
other world, with all those who have gone before,
and with all those who shall come after us, and at
length, at the last day, we shall all appear before
the tribunal of Jesus Christ. Why do you not
imitate those, who, full of these thoughts, labour
only to acquire the true glory of the next world,
which will be solid, universal, eternal ?"

" Cousin," said the poet, " were I only twenty
years old, I would become a Carthusian." "Your

The Poet undeceived. 73

business is not," replied the father, " to become a
Carthusian, but a good and fervent Christian."
" And to effect this, what must I do ?" said the
poet. " You must," answered the father, "put
your conscience in order, make a good confession,
addict yourself to prayer, to good works, to the
frequenting of the sacraments ; you must forget
the world, and think of nothing but preparing
yourself to appear with honour and glory, at the
last judgment." " And what shall I do with my
poem ?" " You must throw it into the fire, and
think no more about it." " I assure you," said
the poet, " If I had it here, I would immediately
burn it in your presence : but I am going home,
and that shall be the first thing I will do when I
arrive there." " I shall not trust to that," replied
the Carthusian; "send it immediately to me, and
come and see me again to-morrow, and we will
burn it together.'* " In a moment," said the poet,
" you shall have it : I feel as if a mountain were
taken off my shoulders, since I have taken the
resolution of giving myself entirely to God, and
to think of nothing but my salvation. Adieu, till
to-morrow."

The poet kept his word, and sent the poem the
same evening. The next day he returned to have
it burnt, and to be confirmed in his good resolu
tions; and from that time he employed himself en
tirely in exercises of piety. His penance was aus
tere, but it was not long. He died six months
after, full of hope and consolation, and thanking
God for having undeceived him in time to obtain
the pardon of his error. He was buried at the
Carthusians, as he had desired.

74

PARABLE XIX.
Laughable Dream of a Monk.

A MONK had a dream, which perplexed him a
great deal. He was not only disturbed by it dur
ing his sleep, but it continued to trouble him after
he awoke. As this dream remained deeply im
pressed on his memory, he fancied it had some
meaning in it, which he wished to discover ; but
he tortured his mind in vain, and could find out
nothing to his satisfaction. To rid himself of his
embarrassment, he went to his abbot, and falling
down at his feet, he asked his blessing : then, hav
ing obtained permission to speak, and being or
dered to sit down, he seated himself and related
his dream, as follows.

" I dreamed, father, last night, that the king
had invited me to his court. Whether this news
pleased me, or not, I cannot exactly say. All that
I remember is, that I was anxiously employed in
procuring a dress suitable to appear before the
king. I therefore provided myself with a hand
some gown and cloak, and I put on a pair of fine
white stockings, and a new cowl : I then thought
myself decently dressed for the occasion. I was
introduced into a large hall full of lords and la
dies ; and I had scarcely been there a minute,
when I perceived I had no cowl on: this surprised
and disturbed me not a little. I soon after saw
that my feet and legs were bare. I could not
conceive how I could come to court in this con
dition ; and I durst neither stay, nor retire. Then,

Laughable Dream of a Monk. 75

instead of decent clothes, I found I had nothing on
but rags, that scarcely covered me. Each mo-
merit did my confusion increase, and I did not
know where to put myself. At length I disco
vered I had nothing on but my shirt, and that a
very indifferent one, being both very short, and
much torn. You may conceive how great was
my confusion, in the midst of such an assembly :
but what you cannot conceive, nor I express, is
the torture occasioned by such shame. No re
medy presented itself, but that of exposing myself
to still greater confusion, by passing in this con
dition, not only through the hall, the apartments
and courts of the palace, but also through the
streets of the town, and the galleries of the mo-
naste^, to get to my cell, and shut myself up
there. However great the difficulties and shame
necessarily attendant on such an enterprise, I was
on the point of attempting it, when it was an
nounced that the king was arrived, and entering
the hall. I screamed out with fright, and awoke.
Though quite out of breath, I was overjoyed to
find myself in my bed, and that what had harassed
me so much was nothing but a dream. Yet, fa
ther, a dream so connected and circumstantial
must signify something. I have endeavoured to
unravel it ; but finding that I could not, and be
sides, confiding entirely in your discernment, I
am come to ask of you the favour of an expla
nation."

" Father," replied the abbot, " you are deceived
in thinking that this dream has any meaning: tho*
connected and circumstantial, it signifies nothing.
Dreams are only sports of the imagination, inex-

76 Laughable Dream of a Monk.

plicable indeed, but to which we must not attach
the slightest belief. Though yours has certainly
no meaning in it, we may still draw from it a very
useful and a very solid moral.

" We are all invited to the court of the King of
Kings, and we must all appear before him. This
truth supposed, you may gather from your dream
three important instructions.

" The first, the care we ought to take to prepare
ourselves for this great day. If you were so busy
in equipping yourself to appear before a king of
the earth, now that you know that you are soon to
appear before the king of heaven, what care ought
you not to take to purify your soul, to adorn it
with all virtues, and to enrich it with all sorts of
good works ?

" The second, the confusion all will experience,
who shall not have taken this care. How dis
tressing will it be for a Christian, and particularly
for a religious, to appear, at the last day, before
Jesus Christ, before the whole heavenly court,
angels and saints, and before the whole universe,
in a state of nakedness and shame ! But, what
will it be, to appear there covered with wounds
and ulcers, that is to say, with sins and iniquities,
in a state of filth and abomination ?

" The third, the humility which ought to ac
company all our actions, and be the foundation
of all our virtues. You thought you were very
well dressed when you went to court ; and when
you were there, you found yourself naked. How
ought we to fear, lest the good which appears in
us, should disappear before the rays of divine
light ; lest our seeming riches be reduced to real

Young Floret^ §c. 77

poverty, and our imaginary glory changed into
eternal confusion! This thought ought not to
discourage us ; but, by exciting our vigilance, to
keep us humble."

The monk retired, full of comfort. His fervour
and humility, during the remainder of his life,
proved how much he had profited by the abbot's
instructions. Let us likewise profit by it ; for it
concerns us as much as it did the monk.

PARABLE XX.
Young Flora, or Love-Letters.

FLORA was young, and lived with her elder sis
ter, both enjoying a decent income left them by
their parents. Flora left the management of her
property and the house entirely to her sister, and
employed her whole time in worldly pleasures and
gallantry. She gloried in having a great many
admirers ; who, attracted by the charms of her
person, the sprightliness of her wit, and the gaiety
of her manners, were constantly paying their court
to her. Besides visits, she had every day letters,
verses, billet-doux ; and these she always made
it a point to answer with exactness. She sported
with her lovers ; and they sported with her. She
gave each of them to understand that he was the
favourite, the only one she loved, and that she
would never marry another ; and each of them
swore to her constant and eternal love, the least
spark of which they never felt. As her only aim
with them was to satisfy her vanity, and as she

78 Young Flora,

always kept them within the bounds of respect
and decency, so they, with her, expected nothing
but to pass their time pleasantly.

A life so idle and so worldly, did not fail to
give scandal, and to be the occasion of many sins.
Flora was herself sensible of it, felt something of
remorse, and sometimes even her visitors were
troublesome to her. She made her sister the con
fidant of her disgust, and her sister profited by
this disclosure, to exhort her to lead a more re
gular and Christian life, of which she set her the
example. On these occasions, one would have
supposed Flora quite changed: she herself thought
so, and was projecting with her sister admirable
plans of a new life. But a love-letter which she
received, and which she ran off to answer, over
turned all these schemes of reform, and re-plunged
her, more than ever, into dissipations and amuse
ments, without which, she persuaded herself she
could no longer live.

One day, her sister and some female friends
came to invite her to accompany them to a sermon.
She was, at that time, busy answering a love-let
ter. However, as she had almost done, and as
she did not wish to offend her friends, she went
with them, intending afterwards to finish her let
ter. The subject of the sermon was Lazarus and
Dives. The preacher, in his sermon, depicted in
lively colours, the punishments of hell, and those
devouring and eternal flames, which were the just
punishment of the rich man's hard-heartedness to
the poor, and of the voluptuous and sensual life
which he had led. All this just suited the young
Flora, and her sister hoped it would have some

or Love Letters. 79

good effect upon her. Though the sermon was
beautiful and pathetic, yet Flora's thoughts being
full of her letter, she found it tedious, and was
not much affected by it. On leaving the church,
she ran off to finish her letter ; but, as she was in
a hurry to seal it, a large drop of melted wax fell
upon her hand, and made her scream out dread
fully. In the first motion of impatience, she threw
both the wax and the letter into the fire. Her sis
ter, alarmed at the noise, hastened to her. No
sooner did Flora see her, than she exclaimed : —
" Ah ! sister, what must the fire of hell be, since
a drop of wax, that has fallen on my hand, gives
me so very great pain ? No more love-letters —
no more suitors — I renounce them for ever." Her
sister could scarcely refrain from laughing ; but
all the time she was employed in trying to assuage
the pain occasioned by the burn, Flora continued
moralizing. " No, sister," said she, " to hear talk

f the fire of hell is nothing ; one must feel the

7ects of this terrible element, to conceive any
idea of a torture so dreadful. Ah ! what a horror

ould men have of sin, did they but feel, in ever
so slight a degree, that fire, which is to be the
eternal punishment of sin."

Whilst she was still speaking, a servant came
with a letter for her. " Go, my good man/' said
she, " and take the letter back to your master :
tell him, that I no longer receive either letters or
visits : tell him to save himself the trouble of com
ing to see me, and of writing to me ; but instead
of coming hither, to go to church, to attend ser-

F™ons, and to profit by them, as I am determined
do." This was enough : all Flora's admirers,

80 Precautions.

hearing of her change, went elsewhere, and trou
bled her no more. From that time she led a life
as pious and edifying, as it had been dissipated
and scandalous ; and died in the arms of her sis
ter, twelve years after, full of virtues, and filled
with consolations.

PARABLE XXI.
Precautions.

A PHILOSOPHER was one day asked, what was
the greatest and most valuable of arts. " It is,"
he replied, the art of taking precautions. This
is the art of arts ; the art of attacking and defend
ing places ; the art of gaining battles ; the art of
reigning, "and of governing nations, provinces,
towns, and families ; the art of preserving the
health of the body, and of regulating the passions
of the soul :" he might have added, the art of
working out one's salvation ; the art of avoiding
sin and hell ; the art of acquiring virtues, and of
gaining heaven.

People are sufficiently attentive in taking pre
cautions in the affairs of this world ; the affair of
salvation is the only one where precautions are
neglected.

When a traveller finds in his way a dangerous
place, he walks with circumspection, and attends
to every step he takes. Were you obliged to
cross a field, which, though covered with a fine
turf, and beautified with flowers, you knew to be
full of hidden ditches and covered abysses, into

Precautions. 81

which you might easily fall, and whence you
could not extricate yourself, should you have the
misfortune to fall in : I ask, could you walk in this
field without fear, without care, and without
looking where you placed your feet ? But i£
walking there with others, you had already seen
many fall in on each side of you, and disappear
for ever, would you not be seized with terror,
and double your attention? But, should any
one of those that walk with you, though warned
as well as you, choose rather to contemn the dan
ger, than to take the trouble to avoid it : should
you see him walk boldly all about the field, dance,
jump, laugh, joke, would you not think he had lost
his senses ? Would you take him for your mo
del ? Alas I your neighbour has disappeared from
off the earth, and has entered eternity : your bro
ther is hidden in the tomb ; he has undergone his
judgment, and he will appear no more : and do
you not tremble ? Do you not take precautions ?
Observe the just, how they tremble, and at
tend to their ways. But, say you, how many
others walk along without any apprehension ?
These, then, are the people you take for your
models ?

When it is known that a road is infested with
robbers and assassins, people take care not to
frequent it ; or, should necessity oblige them to
go that way, they do not venture without being
well armed and attended ; and at every step, at
the least noise, they put themselves in a posture
of defence. You, on the contrary, expose your
self in places and on occasions the most danger
ous, without necessity, without arms, and with-

E 2

82 Precautions.

out any means of defence. What wonder, if you
perish in them ? '"

When the neighbourhood is infected with some
contagious distemper, people are careful to use
remedies and antidotes. Should it be reported,
that the plague is in a neighbouring country, the
frontier is guarded, to prevent any contagion
from entering ; and you, breathing infected air,
take no precaution ; you have recourse to neither
penance, fasting, mortification, nor prayer. —
Though surrounded by a contagious atmosphere,
you place no guard at the door of your senses ;
you allow every sort of object to enter: you ad
mit into your house books, songs, pictures, and
every thing the most infectious. Doing so, how
can you but perish ?

WThen either scarcity or famine is apprehended,
people take precautions, and provide against it :
and if this fail, they leave their country, to find
subsistence elsewhere, that they may not die of
hunger. Do you, then, make abundant provision,
by prayer and the sacraments ; and, if necessary,
withdraw from the world, to procure for yourself
that heavenly food, which the world does not, or
dares not, make use of.

When any part of a town is on fire, all in the
neighbourhood are alarmed, and use every pre
caution. The fire of hell is now actually burning
many of your fellow-creatures ; it is advancing
towards you — it is on the point of reaching you ;
and you do not tremble, nor take any precaution.

WThen a ferocious and unknown beast is ravag
ing a country, and devouring its inhabitants,
each one trembles for his safety, and keeps him-

Tiie King of Cosmia. -83

self on his guard. The devil, like a lion in his
fury, roves about every where, seeking to devour
whom he can; and he is daily surprising and
dragging into hell some one or other. Perhaps
you are already in his power ; and you suffer
yourself to be dragged along without a cry, with
out resistance !

When people have to pass a rapid stream on a
plank, or a dirty place in the road by means of
stepping stones, how careful are they where they
place their feet ! — Do you, then, walk with fear
and trembling in the narrow way of God's com
mandments ; and as to what concerns faith, rest
secure on that solid and immoveable rock, the
Church.

PARABLE XXII.
The King of Cosmia.

THE city of Cosmia was the capital of a large
kingdom of the same name. The island of jEonia
was at no great distance from it. But there ex
isted between the ^Eonians and Cosmians such an
antipathy, that, though the Romans were origin
ally a colony of Cosmians, they had no trade,
nor any communication with each other. If a
Cosmian, forced by stress of weather, chanced to
land on the island, he was immediately seized, and
sent to the Petraea, or the Serpentina, tracts of
land in the island, so called from being very
rocky, and abounding in forests and wild deer,
and from being infested with a frightful number
of serpents of every description. Here the inha-

84 The King of Cosmia.

bitants had for their subsistence nothing but wild
and bitter fruits ; for their lodging, nothing but
caverns ; and they carried on among themselves
a continual and more cruel war, than they did
with the beasts and serpents. The rest of the
island was the abode of plenty, peace, union, and
all sorts of delights, and was separated from the
other by a chain of impenetrable mountains,
and was called Fortunata, not only because the
inhabitants were completely happy, but moreover,
because no one was admitted into it, who did not
bring immense riches with him.

There was at Cosmia a whimsical custom, or
law, by which, every year, the senate elected a
new king, and dethroned the old one. The new
king they chose from among strangers, in order
that he might be ignorant of the law of the senate :
which law the people themselves were utterly un
acquainted with. The king, during the short in
terval of his reign, had the absolute disposal both
of the people, and of the riches of the kingdom.
But, at the end of the year, when he least ex
pected it, he was stript of every thing, blind
folded, and forced on board a canoe, which con
veyed him into the only part of jEonia, where
it was possible to land. Here he was no sooner
put on shore, than apprehended; and being known
to be a Cosmian by his dress, and besides, being
poor and destitute, he was banished to Serpentina,
to pass the rest of his days in misery.

It happened one year, that a stranger, called
Eumenes, was chosen king. He was a man of
virtuous and regular habits ; and besides, endowed
with great strength of mind, and consummate pru-

The King of Cosmia. 85

dence. No sooner was he seated on the throne,
than he began to reflect on the manner he had
been raised to it. He was particularly astonished
at not hearing a word said about his predecessor ;
at seeing none of his family, and at not knowing
how he died, or whether he was dead or not, or,
in fine, what was become of him. He would of
ten ask his courtiers questions on this subject:
but they invariably turned the discourse, and, in
stead of satisfying his enquiries, always began to
extol his kingly greatness and power. These
evasions and flatteries only served to confirm him
in the idea which he -had formed, that there was
something mysterious in the business. Unable to
succeed in clearing away his suspicions, he ap
plied himself to the good government of his .king
dom ; he made justice reign, and the arts and
commerce flourish ; and studied to ease the bur
thens of the people, and to render them good and
happy. On one occasion he even exposed his
life, in a war in which he was engaged, by head
ing his troops, and leading them to battle in per
son. His presence animated his whole army, he
gained a complete victory, and made a peace ad
vantageous to the conquerors and the conquered.
The fame of his exploits and virtues extended to
foreign nations, and caused him to be respected
and beloved at home : but all this splendor did
not dazzle him. He would have preferred the
smallest hint on the subject of his uneasiness, to
all the praises that were lavished upon him.
When a king is sincere in his endeavours to come
at truth, he cannot but discover it. A senator,
charmed with the virtues of Eumenes, perceived

86 The King of Cosmia.

his uneasiness, and having obtained a private in
terview with him, he disclosed to him, under the
seal of secresy, the mysterious law of the state.
Eumenes embraced and thanked him; and en
treated him, on his part, not to say a word to
any one about his having disclosed the secret to
him.

The king, pleased at this discovery adopted
suitable measures to profit by it, in order to avoid
the Serpentina. He did not wait long, before an
opportunity presented itself. A gale "of wind
drove an JEonian ship on the coast of Cosmia.
The news having reached the court, the king was
immediately told, that these Romans were enemies
of the state, and that they must be treated as such.
The king thought otherwise, and observed, that,
so far from being, under such circumstances,
harshly dealt with, these unfortunate people were
rather deserving of their pity and assistance. He
gave orders for them to be brought to his court,
and gave them an honourable reception. Luckily
for him, many of these JSonians were chief men
in their kingdom. He had private conferences
with them, in which, having declared that it was
his intention to come and live among them, mea
sures were contrived for transporting secretly in
to ^Eonia all the treasures he had at his disposal.
.Everything being settled to the full satisfaction
of both parties, he dismissed the Romans, after
making them magnificent presents. By them he
sent to the King of JSonia a crown of gold, en
riched with diamonds, and another almost as va
luable to the Queen Dowager. After their de
parture, without neglecting the care of his king-

The King of Cosmia. 87

dom, Eumenes carefully amassed all the treasures
he could, of which he, every week, sent a ship
load to JSonia.

In the mean time, the end of his reign arrived,
and the senate came to announce it to him. He
was not taken by surprise, because he expected
it, and was prepared for it. He suffered himself
to be stripped without a murmur : he permitted
them to blindfold him, put him on ship-board, and
banish him. The ^Eonian Lords, whom he had
treated so well, were waiting for him at the port.
They conducted him to court, where he ever af
ter enjoyed the favour of the king, the confidence
and friendship of the grandees of the kingdom,
and the esteem of the people.

Had you been in Eumenes's place, knowing
what he knew, would you not have done as he
did ? Well, and why do you not ? Do you not
see, that Cosmia is nothing but this world ? that
JEtonia. is eternity ; Serpentina, Hell ; and For-
tunata, Paradise ? In one sense, you are a king
in this world ; at least you are, while in it, mas
ter of your heartland of your actions. Reflect then
on the manner in which you were placed in this
world; on the end for which you were placed
here ; and on the faith of those who have gone be
fore you, and who appear no more. What is all
this mystery ? You are not ignorant of it :
strive to understand it better, and love instruction
in this particular. Fear a miserable eternity:
wish for a happy one. Make to yourself friends
in heaven : send thither all your treasures, and
all the virtues and good works you can : endea
vour to merit the favour of the King, and of the

88 The imprudent Traveller.

Queen, his Mother, and when death shall come,
and strip you of every thing, you will welcome it
with thankfulness, because it will put you in pos
session of a kingdom, that will never end.

PARABLE XXIII.
The imprudent Traveller.

A TRAVELLER crossing a forest, was perceived
by a furious lioness, which immediately rushed
forward to devour him. Her terrible roarings
made the distant woods and mountains re-echo.
Fear added fleetness to his feet; and gaining
ground on the animal, he left her a considerable
distance behind him. But, in running so fast
from one danger, he fell into another. Not being
aware of a gulph that lay in his way, he was precipit
ated into it. He extended his arms, to seize the
first object that might present itself, and was so
lucky as to meet with the branch of a tree, which
he clung to, and there remained suspended. Thus
he escaped falling to the bottom of the abyss,
where he would most certainly have been dashed
to pieces. In this situation, though a dreadful one,
he congratulated himself with having retarded, at
least for a few minutes, his destruction. But he did
not yet know all the dangers that threatened him.
After having attentively examined the tree that
supported him, he saw two large mountain rats,
the one white, the other black, incessantly gnaw
ing the foot of the tree, which they had almost
entirely separated. Then turning his eyes to the

The imprudent Traveller. 89

bottom of the abyss, he descried an enormous
dragon, with sparkling eyes and open mouth,
waiting only for the fall of the tree, to devour his
prey. Thence he cast his eye to the other side of
the abyss, and perceived four large serpents, with
horrible hissings, darting towards him, to bite him.
" Alas I Lord," cried he, sighing, " for what pe
rils hast thou reserved me ? and to which of these
monsters am I to serve for food ? Is there no
means of extricating myself, and of escaping these
ferocious animals ?" Having said this, he per
ceived that some of the leaves of the tree distilled
honey. He tasted it, and found it not only de
licious, but quite invigorating. It was a refresh
ment sent him from heaven, and he ought to have
made use of it, to summon up all his strength, and
by means of this tree, or of some other more
likely to suit his purpose, to have endeavoured to
get out of this abyss : the more so, as it was to
be presumed that the lioness, whose roarings he
no longer heard, had retired into the woods. But,
who would believe it? Instead of contriving
means for his escape, he clambered up the tree,
and, being seated at his ease, he employed his
whole time and thoughts in gathering honey, and
enjoying its fatal sweetness. Nay, he began to
make a provision of it, to serve him for a long
time. Whilst he was thus engaged, and busied
in forming projects, and in taking, as he thought,
wise measures to secure a more abundant supply
of it in future, the tree, being'sufficiently gnawed,
gave a sudden crash, broke asunder, and fell with
him to the bottom of the gulf; and the dragon of
the abyss, waiting with extended claws and open

90 The imprudent Traveller.

throat, swallowed up for ever the unfortunate
traveller.

O senseless man ! own yourself at least in this
picture : and while you have yet time, repair
your error, and prevent its dreadful effects. Will
you always be the dupe of a momentary gratifi
cation, that makes you forget your eternal inter
est? From the moment of your birth, death,
like a raging lioness, pursues you. You have
heard its roarings, and more than once has the
thought of it frightened you. This earth, on
which you sojourn, is a gulf, that swallows up all ;
at the bottom of it is the abyss of hell and eter
nity. The only stay to your fall is, the life of
the body ; but this body is continually menaced
by the jarring elements that compose it, which,
without intermission, work its ruin and destruc
tion. The duration of this body has its fixed
term ; you cannot prolong it : and this duration
is continually diminishing, and, if I may be al
lowed the expression, gnawed by day and night,
till the moment when the brittle tree at last breaks,
and in its fall precipitates you into the abyss of
eternity.

Is there, then, no means of escaping so ter
rible a misfortune ? Certainly there is ; and
the only care that ought to occupy you during
life is, not to suffer it to slip out of your hands.
Jesus Christ offers you his cross, as the Tree
of Life, which alone can save you : attach your
self to it, and you will escape all your ene
mies. Dread the honey, which the world offers
you. It is, to be sure, a present from heaven ;
but fear, lest its sweetness intoxicate your heart,

The Coat of Arms of Martin V. 91

and make you forget the dangers that threaten
you. Take no more of it than is necessary to
support your strength, and to enable you to do
penance, to give alms, to practise good works, to
avoid hell, and merit everlasting life.

PARABLE XXIV.
The Coat of Arms of Martin V.

POPE MARTIN the Fifth took for his coat of arms
a blazing fire, which he got engraved on his seal,
for the purpose of reminding him of three things :

1. The bonfires that were made at his corona
tion ; which by their short duration, warned him
that his dignity, glory, and life, were soon to
have an end.

2. The fire of the last day, which is to destroy
the whole world ; that universal conflagration,
which is to consume tiaras, sceptres, crowns, and
reduce all to ashes.

3. The fire of eternity, lighted by the breath
of an angry God ; that fire, which is never ex
tinguished; that burning furnace, where they,
who shall have abused their authority, and the
goods of this life, shall burn eternally ; that pool
of brimstone, that place of torments, into which
each sinner falls at his death.

Ah! had we but this seal well impressed on
our heart, how many errors should we escape ?
How many sins should we avoid ? With how
many good works should we enrich ourselves.

92

PARABLE XXV.

The Algebraist.

A PHILOSOPHER, a great Algebraist, having heard
a sermon on eternitj^, was not satisfied with it,
any more than with the calculations and examples
the preacher proposed. On his return home, he
retired to his study, and began to think the mat
ter over. He wrote down his thoughts on paper
as they occurred, and as follows :

1. The finite, or that which has an end, com
pared to the infinite, or to that which has no end,
is a cypher, is nothing. A hundred millions of
years, compared to eternity, are a cypher, are
nothing.

2. There is more proportion between the least
finite being and the greatest finite being, than
there is between the greatest^/zmfe being and the
infinite. There is more proportion between one
hour and a hundred millions of years, than there
is between a hundred millions of years and eter
nity ; because the least finite makes part of the
greatest finite, whereas the greatest finite makes
no part of the infinite. An hour makes part of
a hundred millions of years, because a hundred
millions of years are but an hour repeated a cer
tain number of times ; whereas a hundred mil
lions of years makes no part of eternity, because
eternity is not a hundred millions of years re
peated a certain number of times.

3. With respect to the infinite, the smallest or
the greatest finite is the same thing. With

The Algebraist. 93

regard to eternity, one hour, or a hundred mil
lions of years, are the same thing. The duration
of the life of a man, or the duration of the whole
world, is the same thing, because one and the
other is a cypher, is nothing ; and because nothing
admits of neither more nor less. All this being
evident and granted —

I now suppose, that God would grant you only
a quarter of an hour's life, to merit a happy eter
nity ; and revealed to you at the same time, that
an hour after your death, the whole world would
come to an end : I ask you, in this supposition,
what value you would set on the world and its
judgments? What would you think of the pains
and pleasures, that you might experience during
your life ? With what care would you not think
yourself obliged to employ all the moments of your
life for God, and to prepare for a good death ?
Senseless man, do you not see that, with regard
to God and eternity, the supposition I have just
made, is a reality ? That the duration of your
life, with regard to eternity, is less than a quarter
of an hour ; and the whole duration of the uni-
rerse, less than an hour ? — I will make another
supposition.

If you had a hundred years to live, and were
to have nothing for your support during all that
time, but what you could carry home in an hour,
from a treasure of gold and silver coin, to which
you were to have free access, during that hour ;
I ask you, in what would you employ the hour ?
Would it be in sleep ? Would it be in loitering
about, in idle talk, or vain amusements ? Cer
tainly not ; but in storing up riches, and even in

94 The Algebraist.

loading yourself with gold preferably to silver.
Senseless as we are ! we are to live throughout
eternity ; and we shall have, during this eternity,
nothing but the reward of the merits we shall have
amassed during the short space of our life ; and
yet we do not employ all this time in amassing
merits ! But, you will say, one must, during life,
sleep, eat, drink, and be allowed a little recrea
tion. I grant it; but what hinders you from
doing all these things, as St. Paul admonishes,
for the love of God ? By doing this, you will make
a merit of all.

It must be confessed, that our passions are so
lively, and the occasions so seducing, that it is
astonishing there should be one just man on the
earth ; yet such there are : and this is the effect
of the mercy of God, and the grace of a Re
deemer. On the other side, death, judgment,
and eternity, are truths so terrible, that it is as
tonishing there should be a single sinner on the
earth ; yet there are such : and it is the effect of
the forgetfulness of these great truths. Let us,
then, meditate, watch, and pray, that we may
be of the number of the just, both in time and
in eternity.

Such was our Philosopher's Sermon, that he
made for himself; and he was so pleased with it,
that he read it every day, and many times in the
day. He did more ; he profited by it, and led a
holy life, conformably to the great truths, which
he had always before his eyes.

95

PARABLE XXVI.

The beautiful Julia.

JULIA was the only daughter of a gentleman in
reduced circumstances : on account of the un
common beauty of her person, she was surnamed
the Beautiful. In her were assembled all perfec
tions, as well of mind as of body : her character
was unimpeachable. Her charms gained her a
great many admirers ; but, owing to her poverty,
none asked her hand in marriage, except the son
of a rich farmer. The name of this farmer was
Brechet ; but his son was most commonly called
the Black, the Ugly, or the Wicked. All these
names suited him very well, as they perfectly ex
pressed the qualities both of his body and his
mind. He was thick and short ; his legs were
lank, and bent inwards ; he had a high chest,
broad shoulders, a big head, dark complexion,
and his face was much disfigured. On his left
cheek he had a long scar, which he had received
in a quarrel : the small pox had deprived him of
his left eye, bleared his right, and left on his fore
head a large scurf, disgusting to the sight. The
qualities of his mind corresponded with those of
his body. The young Brechet was vulgar, brut
ish, choleric, quarrelsome, avaricious, insolent,
proud, debauched, a swearer, a drunkard, jealous ;
in a word, he had all the qualities, any single one
of which would suffice to make a husband hate
ful, and a wife miserable. Such was the man that
wished to marry the beautiful Julia. No sooner

96 The beautiful Julia.

was the proposal made to her by her father, than
she fainted away, and was with difficulty re
covered. When she became tolerably composed,
her father thus addressed her : " My dear Julia,
you need not marry Brechet unless you like. I
do not wish to force you to marry against your
inclination : but you must think of getting a live
lihood. We live on a very small pension, which
will be discontinued at my death ; and what will
become of you then ?" " Father," replied Julia,
" I would rather die of hunger, and in misery,
than marry such a monster. Heaven perhaps
will have pity on me." Saying this, she shed a
torrent of tears ; her father embraced her, and re
tired to conceal his emotion, saying to her as he
went out of the room : " Do not fear, my child ;
nothing more shall be said about this marriage."
In the mean time, young Brechet, confident of
obtaining Julia's consent, boasted every where of
his intended marriage; so that it became the
common talk of the country. Passing from one
to another, the news at last reached the court.
The king's son, who was an accomplished prince,
and expected to marry a relation of his, a prin
cess, hearing what was said of Julia, was curious
to see her. At the very first interview, he was
smitten with her charms. The fairest characters
are always objects of envy and defamation ; and
this Julia experienced; for one of the courtiers, per
ceiving the impression made on the prince's heart,
ventured thus to address him : " It would be a
great pity, Sir, should Julia, being so beautiful,
have the faults with which people reproach her."
" What faults ?" said the prince. " It is said,"

The beautiful Julia. 97

continued the courtier, " that she is very incon
stant and fickle, that she is always running from
house to house, and never at home." As love
excuses every thing, the prince answered : " That
is by no means surprising : Julia has nothing to
keep her at home ; there she sees nothing but po
verty and misery ; and she goes out to divert her
thoughts, and to remove her uneasiness. Were
she in a different situation, her conduct would
be different." The prince, however, reflected on
what had been said, and coming again to see
Julia, he observed she was not at home when he
arrived. Whilst the servant was gone to seek her,
he entered into conversation with the father, and
declared to him his intention of marrying his
daughter, if she supported the trial he intended
to put her to. Julia at length arriving, the prince
addressed her thus : " I have just been asking
you in marriage of your father ; but I told him,
I wished first to put your love to the test." " My
Lord," replied Julia, "the greater the trial the
more agreeable will it be to me. Fire and sword
resent no dangers which I would not face, to
testify to you my gratitude arid love." " Fire
and sword are out of the question," said the
prince : " I have been twice to see you, and each
time I have found you from home. This, then,
is the trial I mean to make of your love : I must
find you at home, the next time I come to see
you ; and if I do, on that very day will I marry
you, and take you to court with me. Thus I
have settled matters with the king my father :
but if, on that day, I do not find you at home, I
will think no more of you, and marry another."

F

98

The beautiful Julia.

" And I," said the father, " will marry her to
Brechet." " At this rate," said Julia, my hap
piness is certain ; and for this, were it required
of me to stop at home all my life, I would will
ingly consent." The prince withdrew, and
Julia was perfectly well satisfied.

You will easily guess, that the next day Julia
did not go from home ; nor did she the second
day, nor the third, nor the fourth : on the fifth,
she just ventured out and back again; on the
sixth, she ventured out for half an hour, and then
returned ; on the seventh, she went out for an
hour, and then hastened back; on the eighth,
her father observing her going out, said to her :
" Daughter, you go out too much : you forget
what the prince said to you, and what you pro
mised him : you do not seem to reflect, that your
all is at stake." " Oh, father," answered Julia,
" the prince will not come to-day ; but should he
come, from our house we can see a great way up
the road ; and I have taken care to recommend
to the women, who are up stairs, to come and
let me know, if the prince's equipage should
come in sight : so I have nothing to fear." —
" Daughter," replied the father, " the sure way
would be to remain at home ; it is not safe to de
pend on others ; and, in an affair of this conse
quence, I certainly would not run any risk."
Julia left him talking, and continued her walk.

Scarcely had she got through the gate, than
from the top of the house the women descried the
prince's equipage ; but, as they had seen Julia
the moment before, they concluded she was not
gone out, and therefore took no further notice.

The beautiful Julia. 9<?

The horses and carriages, however, approaching^
they call Julia, but Julia does not answer. They
go into her room— into the garden — but no Julia
is to be found. All is alarm and confusion ; Julia
is from home — they hasten to the next house —
but no Julia is there. While they are running
here and there, the prince arrives ; and finding
Julia absent, he enters his carriage again, and
drives off. Julia returned in time to see the
prince's equipage at a distance, as it returned.

All is lamentation and despair: Julia wrings
her hands, and tears her hair — her father, frantic
with rage, thus reproaches her : " Unhappy girl,
why wast thou deaf to my admonitions ? Why
didst thou run any risk in an affair of such conse
quence ? Thou wilt be the death of me : but this
evening shalt thou marry him, that I promised
thee." " Ye§, I will marry him," said Julia ; " I
have deserved it. He cannot make me suffer as
much as I deserve. Send for him immediately,
that I may marry him. We are worthy of each
other." Brechet, a notary, and the curate, are
immediately sent for : the marriage ceremony is
performed, and Brechet takes the beautiful Julia
home with him.

How deserving of compassion and tears is the
fate of this wretched woman ! Her father did not
long survive her disgrace : he died four days after
of a broken heart. As for Julia, she lived long
enough to repent her folly. Every one lamented
her fate, though at the same time they could not
but condemn her. Nay, she condemned herself,
and, in her greatest afflictions, she ceased not to

100 The beautiful Julia.

exclaim : " I have well deserved this ;" and this
it was that constituted her greatest torture.

The very day after their marriage, she appeared
with her face disfigured from the blows given her
by her brutal husband ; because, he said, she did
not seem to rejoice on the occasion. Julia's health
declined daily, and she became so altered, that
she was not to be known again. Daily did she
curse her fate, and wish for death ; but death re
fused her prayer. What was still more melan
choly, she became as ugly, as frightful, and as
wicked as her husband, and was equally hated
and detested. They were two demons, and their
house was a perfect hell.

Christian soul, purchased by the blood of Jesus
Christ, and washed in the waters of baptism, you
are here represented by the beautiful Julia. You
are not ignorant that the devil, that horrible and
detestable monster, has pretensions to you, and
that he flatters himself he shall one day have you
united to him. The bare thought of this makes
you shudder ; but this is not enough ; you must
use every means in your power to prevent this
union. You know likewise that the son of God,
King of Heaven and Earth, demands you as his
spouse ; that it is his intention to conduct you
one day to his kingdom, there to share with you
the delights of an eternal love. This you ear
nestly desire, and wish it were now accomplished.
But this will not suffice : you must shew yourself
worthy of such a Spouse, and testify your love
to him, by observing his laws, and supporting the
trial he will put you to. The trial is not a dim-

The unfortunate Traveller. 101

cult one, but it is essential ; and it is necessary,
when he comes to the marriage, and to take you
with him to crown you, viz. at your death, that
he should find you at home, that is to say, in the
state of grace. Ah! put yourself into this state
quickly : never leave it. Use every means to
keep and strengthen yourself in it Avoid every
thing that may be likely to draw you from it,
though but for a moment. It is not enough to
begin, or to continue for a time : you must per
severe to the end till he come.

Be particularly careful not to trust to what you
shall do at your death. Death gives no warning.
It often comes on a sudden, and without our per
ceiving it. If, at other times, it announces its
coming by infirmities and sickness, he, for whom
it comes does not perceive it ; and they, whose
business it is to warn him, are often themselves
deceived, or still oftener they are negligent and
timid, and too often their warning comes too late.
The number of those who daily die, without the
help of the sacraments, ought to make us tremble.

PARABLE XXVII.

The unfortunate Traveller.

A YOUNG man crossing a forest, was attacked by
a frightful monster, which on a lion's body carried
seven serpent's heads. The animal, on leaving
its den, made straight at him ; at the same time
raising its seven heads, with eyes sparkling like
fire ; and darting forth its seven tongues, it filled

F 2

102 The unfortunate Traveller.

the air with horrible hissings. The young man,
who was powerful and courageous, was not dis
concerted at the sight. Having no other arms than
a hatchet, which he carried hanging from his waist,
according to the custom of the country, he seized
it, and rushed at the beast : at the first blow, he
cut off four of its heads ; at the second, he cut off
two ; and at the third, he would without difficulty
have cutoff the last, and gained a complete victory,
had not his hatchet, at the second blow, slipped
out of his hand, without his having time to pick
it up again: for the beast, enraged at the six wounds
it had received, rushed furiously upon him, bit
him, stung him, tore him, and carried him off.
The wretched man struggled, but in vain : he
called out for help, begging that some one would
at least give him his hatchet ; but nobody heard
him. The beast dragged him alive into its den,
where he served as food for itself and its young
ones.

The monster here mentioned, is the devil, and
the seven heads are the seven capital sins, against
which we must fight courageously with the arms
of faith. It is not enough, to cut off six of this
monster's heads : if we leave him one, we are un
done. What does it avail us, to be exempt from
many passions, if we keep and cherish one. It is,
generally speaking, only one vice that damns a
man. Examine if, in fighting this infernal lion,
you have not left him one head : this one head is
sufficient to devour you. Your victory is nothing,
if not complete. You must persevere to the end ;
you must fight till death. Do not tire during the
struggle ; do not let the hatchet slip out of your

Agrippinas Expedient. 103

hands ; do not leave off prayer, the examination
of your conscience, the sacraments, the practice
of mortification and penance. The devil would
avail himself of your negligence, to inflict on you
a thousand wounds ; and should you die in that
state, he would drag you along with him into the
infernal abyss, where you would be eternally a
prey to him, and a sport to all the infernal spirits.
Vain then would be your groans ; in vain would
you ask for help, and call back the time you might
have lost, the graces you might have abused, the
means of salvation you might have neglected ;
nobody would hear you, and not one would be
returned to you. Make then the best use of them,
while you have the opportunity.

PARABLE XXVIII.
Agrippinas Expedient.

AGRIPPINA, a Roman lady, observing that her
son squandered his money in trifles, and lavished
it indiscriminately, was anxious to correct him of
so misplaced a prodigality, which she feared would
terminate in the utter ruin of the family. To ef
fect this, she made use of the following expedient.
One day, having learnt the amount of a large sum
that her son had expended, she put an equal sum
upon a table in the room where she was sitting.
The young man coming in the evening to enquire
after his mother's health, and seeing this immense
sum of money, eagerly asked what it was ? " It
is," replied the mother, " what you have lost to^

104 The disgraced Courtiers.

day ; and having said this, she went out of the
room, leaving her son to his reflections. These
were so serious and so efficacious, that he was en
tirely corrected.

If, in like manner, we should have placed un
der one point of view the losses we suffer in one
day by our negligence ; the graces, the merits,
the eternal rewards that we neglect to acquire, by
our own fault, we should be astonished : and per
haps our astonishment might induce us to be less
prodigal of so many graces, and to employ better
a time, on the good employment of which depends
the acquisition of immense blessings. How many
occasions of exercising, for God, mildness, hu
mility, patience, charity, mortification? Ah! did
we but see what we lose each day, and what it
would cost us so little not to lose ! — But we shall
one day see it, when our loss will be irreparable.
Why wait for this moment, and not now repair
our loss, while we have it in our power ?

PARABLE XXIX.
The disgraced Courtiers.

THERE are occurrences in life, which makes so
much impression on the mind, that we must be
placed in the same situation as those, on whom
the effects have been produced, to believe the
reality of such effects.

Philip II. King of Spain, while attending mass,
observed two of his courtiers, who did nothing
but talk during the whole of the sacrifice. On

Attachment of Tigranes and Berenice. 105

going out of the chapel, the king said to them :
" Is it thus you hear mass ? Never appear at
court again." This word was a thunderbolt to
both. One died two days after, and the other
lost his senses. How dreadful then will it be, to
hear from the mouth of the King of Ages : " Go
from me, ye cursed — go into everlasting fire."

PARABLE XXX.

The affectionate Attachment of Tigranes and
Berenice.

CYRUS, king of the Persians, gained a great bat
tle, in which Tigranes, king of Armenia,* was
taken prisioner, with Berenice his queen. They
were both brought into the presence of the con
queror, who being struck with the charms of Be
renice, and knowing at the same time how dear
she was to Tigranes, thus addressed him : " What
would you give, Tigranes, for the relief of Bere
nice ?" " Sire," replied the king, " I would give
my kingdom and my life." " You must, then,
indeed, love her," said Cyrus, " and I praise your
generosity."

Affairs coming shortly after to an accommodation,
Tigranes was reinstated in his kingdom. Being
one day alone with his Queen Berenice, he asked
her what she thought of the kingdom of the Per-

* Armenia is a large, healthy, and very fertile country
in Asia. The ark is supposed to have rested on Ararat,
one of its mountains.

106 Attachment of Tigranes and Berenice.

sians, the majesty of King Cyrus, the magnificence
of his court, the number of his officers, and the
riches of his palace ? Berenice answered : " Ex
cuse me, my Lord, I saw nothing : I had eyes
only for him who offered his life for my liberty."
" Ah ! my dear Berenice," exclaimed the king,
embracing her, " how worthy are you of my love !
and how happy am I, while I love you, to have
at the same time, a kingdom to share with you !"

The simple narration of this story charms and
affects me : but when I apply it to the kingdom
of heaven, and the faithful souls, it ravishes and
transports me ; it raises and depresses me ; it con
founds me, and animates me with fresh courage.
Make, if you please, the application yourself, ac
cording to the four following points.

I. The words of Tigranes, and the generosity
of his love. Jesus Christ not only offered himself
to die for us, but he did really die for our deli
verance, not only from a temporal, but an eternal
captivity, from eternal death, from eternal pu
nishment: and not only for our deliverance, but to
procure for us, at the same time, life eternal, and
an everlasting kingdom. He died, not for an
amiable spouse, worthy of love, but to render
amiable her, who before was frightful, and to make
her worthy of his love, at a time she deserved no
thing but his hatred. O love inconceivable ! It
cost Tigranes little to express these generous sen
timents, because, while he declared the love he
bore his wife, he gained honour before Cyrus and
his court. But what did it not cost Jesus Christ
to testify to us his love ? What did he meet with?
Nothing but punishments and reproaches.

Attachment of Tigrancs and Berenice. 107

II. The impression which the speech of the
king made upon the queen. It penetrated her very
soul, it filled and inflamed her whole heart : she
felt all the ardour, all the tenderness, all the value
of a love so generous, and all the glory that ac
crued to her, in consequence of this public declar
ation. Oh! how much more ought you to be
inflamed at the sight of the Cross ! What love !
what tenderness ! what generosity ! and for you,
what happiness and glory !

III. The grateful feelings of Berenice. She
was so effected by the speech of the king her hus
band, that, during the whole time she was at the
court of the king of Persia, she never forgot it ;
her mind was always filled with it, to the exclu
sion of every other thought ; no other affection
touched her heart: no other object made any im
pression on her senses. She would see nothing,
she would hear nothing, that her whole time
might be occupied with the love which constituted
her happiness and her glory. Ah ! how does this
reflection humble me ! happy those faithful souls,
who have placed an impenetrable wall between
themselves and the world, that they may be
wholly occupied in retirement, with the love and
the cross of their Saviour.

IV. The answer of Berenice to the king her
husband. How pleasant, how honourable was it
to her, to use the expression ! What happiness
will it be to a faithful soul, which, on leaving this
world, shall be able to say to the King of Hea
ven : " Lord, in the world whence I come, I
have seen nothing : I have had eyes only for him,
who gave his life for my deliverance. I have

108 Beautiful Application of

loved nothing but him : I have thought of
nothing but him; I have acted only for him.1
With what tender, what delicious feelings, will
such fidelity receive its reward from the King of
Ages, in the kingdom of eternal love.

PARABLE XXXI.

Beautiful Application of a Passage from
Anacreon.

AMONG the young religious, whom the Abbot
Eusebius was forming to habits of piety, there
was one, named Felix, who had a highly culti
vated mind, and who, while in the world, had
taken great delight in reading profane poets. The
remembrance of what he had read would some
times disturb him in his solitude. Father Pan-
timus, his head master, not being able to succeed
in removing from the mind of his scholar the re
mains of a pagan education, sent him before the
abbot, that he might expel him the monastery as
incorrigible. The abbot, aprudentman, seeing Fe
lix bathed in tears, was moved with compassion.
He comforted and encouraged him, and told him,
that, though he could not expel from his mind such
verses, he should, at least, try to apply them to
some subject of piety and devotion; and that
then, the distraction would be changed into a
good thought, and become useful to him. Felix
followed this advice, and was very comfortable for
some time. But one day, not being able to spi
ritualize some verses that obtruded themselves,

a Passage from Anacreon. 109

he went to the abbot, and said to him : " Father
I am much afflicted : for two days my mind has
been full of a passage from Anacreon, which I
can neither expel from my memory, nor apply to
any thing good." " What is the passage ?" asked
the abbot. " The poet says," replied Felix, " that
the God of Love had shot several flaming arrows
at him, and that he had been able to parry them
all without feeling their power ; but that this little
cunning god at length, changing himself into an
arrow, had got possession of his heart." He then
adds : " and what means have I of defending my
self against a god so formidable."

" Felix," replied the abbot, " hear me. The
frequent recurrence of these profane recollections
is occasioned by the esteem you hold them in,
and the value you set upon them. Do you not
see, my child, that all these pagan poetical ideas
are nothing but error and falsehood ; that this
God of Love is only an imaginary being, an un
meaning word, invented by licentious poets, to
excuse, to conceal, and even to embellish, if they
could, the most shameful of all passions ? The
true God of Love is the Creator of Heaven and
Earth ; he, who, out of pure love, created you,
and still preserves you : who became man for you ;
who redeemed you at the price of his blood : who
delivered himself up, and died for you. All these
benefits are so many flaming darts, against which
you have for a long ime, known but too well how
to defend yourself. You see the wonderful in
ventions of his love : you know into what this
God of Love has changed himself, in order to
enter your heart, to incorporate himself with you,

110 Beautiful Application, §c.

and to be but one with you. He has not changed
himself into an arrow, like Cupid, to inflict on
your heart a cruel and dishonourable wound ; to
pierce it with a thousand griping cares, and to
distract it by a thousand contrary affections ; af
fections base, shameful, and desperate : but he
has veiled himself under the most simple elements,
under the form of bread and wine, to be your
food, your strength, your consolation ; to raise
you to himself, arid to make you partaker of his
divine nature, his happiness and glory. This,
Felix, is the true God of Love. Now, then, cry
out : " What means are there of defending one's
self against a God so powerful and so lovely ?"

At these words, the young man threw himself
at the abbot's feet, and watering them with his
tears, he cried out : " I acknowledge, great God,
my too long opposition, but at length I yield to
this last dart of thy love." From that time he
thought no more of the profane poets, who sing
only imaginary gods, contemptible demons, and
shameful passions. The finest passages of those
licentious songs, which he had admired, and called
divine, now became hateful to him. He hence
forth took delight only in the Psalms, the sacred
Hymns of the Church, and other spiritual Can
ticles, which extol the true God, and inspire no
other sentiments than those of that pure, tranquil,
and delicious love, which now constitutes, and
which will for ever constitute our happiness, and
promote his glory. The recollection of the be
nefits of God, and particularly of the Holy Eu
charist, filled his soul. When he was in the pre
sence of the Holy Sacrament, or even elsewhere,

The King of Castile, fyc. Ill

he was often heard to cry out : " What means
are there of defending one's self from a God so
great and so good, who even comes down to us,
and enters, and dwells within us ?"

a

Tr

PARABLE XXXII.

The King of Castile,* or the favourable
opportunity.

SUINTILA, King of Castile, hunting one day,
rambled from his guards. After having wandered
about for a long time, at last, about dusk, he met
two good-looking young men walking in the fo
rest. Their names were Gaspard and Castro:
they were cousins, and lived at two neighbouring
villages. " Young men," said the king as he ap
proached them, without however making himself
known to them, " pray set me right : I am lost
in this forest ; shew me the road out of it, arid
1 me where I can have a lodging for the night.
To-morrow, I am going to court, where I have a
considerable interest. If one, or both of you,
will accompany me thither, I promise you wealth
and preferment." Gaspard spoke first, and made
him this reply : " We can easily shew you out of
this forest, and provide you with a lodging ; but
as for going with you to court, 1 at least feel no
inclination." " Well, my Lord," replied Castro,
" accompany me home, and to-morrow morning,

* Castile, (New) a Province of Spain, of which Ma
drid is the capital.

112 The King of Castile, or

if my father will give his consent, I will go with
you, aud entrust myself entirely to your care and
protection." Hereupon they separated ; Gaspard
went home, and Castro conducted the king to his
father's. They gave the stranger the best enter
tainment the house afforded, though they had not
the smallest idea who he was ; and in the morn
ing the father, after long opposition, at length
consented to his son's departure. The king, in
company with Castro, had not proceeded a quar
ter of a league, before he met his guards. Castro
shewed his surprise at their saluting him as their
king : which the king observing, he turned to him
with a smile, and said : " You see, Castro, I did
not deceive you, when I told you I had some in
terest at court." " No, Sire," replied Castro ;
" but I fear I have been deceived, in giving you
the whole affection of rny heart, as to my friend,
when I ought to have paid you all due respect,
as to my king." " I receive respect enough,"
rejoined the king, " but I do not know whether
I have any affection on which I can depend, be
side that of Castro : so continue it to me, and
follow me." The king loaded him with honours
and riches, and always kept him near his person
as his confidential friend.

In the mean time, all the villagers were busy
in reflecting on the credulity of old Castro, who
had, they said, turned his son over to an adven
turer. His relations and friends blamed him for
it ; and he reproached himself most bitterly. On
the other hand, they extolled the prudence of
young Gaspard, and congratulated his father upon
his having such a son. Shortly after, they were

the favourable opportunity. 113

informed by a letter from Castro, that it was the
king himself that he had followed ; and when they
saw the magnificent present which the king had
sent to Castro's father, they altered their senti
ments, and changed their reproaches into admir
ation. Every one now rejoiced with and con
gratulated Castro, while poor Gaspard was all
chagrin and sorrow : and a war that broke out
soon after, rendered his situation still more dis
tressing.

A great number of troops being required to
prosecute the war, all the young men of the
country were enrolled, and Gaspard saw himself
obliged to serve as a common soldier. How
many hardships had he not to undergo in this
war? But of all his troubles, none was so dis
tressing as this thought, which was always upper
most in his mind : " While I am dying here of
hunger, fatigue, and ill usage, Castro is at court,
at his ease, in honour, and plenty : and I should
now be there with him, had I embraced the op
portunity, as he did."

But, as if this thought had not been enough
to depress him, his eyes too must add to his
torment, and engrave for ever on his mind the
sad remembrance of his misfortune. The king
ordered a review of his troops : he was seated un
der a canopy, with Castro at his side. As the
troops were filing off, Gaspard saw Castro, and
Castro saw Gaspard. " Kad I followed the king,"
said Gaspard to himself, " I should now be with
Castro." " Had I not followed the king," said
Castro to himself, " I should now be like Gas-

114 2 he King of Castile, $c.

pard." O heart-rending thought for the one ! O
consoling reflection for the other !

Are we not all one day to appear before the
immortal King of Ages ? What will be the hap
piness of having followed him ? What the misery
of not having done so ? The opportunity of fol
lowing him, and attaching ourselves to him, we
yet have ; but we shall soon be deprived of it.
Shall we suffer it to escape ? Ah ! let us rather
employ well what remains.

Nothing is so distressing, as to have lost the
opportunity either of avoiding some great evil,
which we now actually suffer, or acquiring some
great good, of which we see ourselves deprived.
The mind is always recurring to it, and cannot
be at rest. On the contrary, nothing is more ra
vishing, than to see ourselves either delivered
from some great evil, or arrived at the possession
of a great good, by having embraced the proper
opportunity, when it presented itself, of avoiding
the one, or acquiring the other.

Our present life is given us as a great and fa
vourable opportunity of avoiding the sovereign
evil of hell, and of acquiring the sovereign hap
piness of heaven. This opportunity once gone
by, never returns more. This grand oppor
tunity comprises many small ones. Each day
is a favourable opportunity to us of avoiding hell,
and of gaining heaven ; and each day has, be
sides, a thousand particular opportunities of avoid
ing^ evil, and of practising virtue. In like man
ner, each state, each profession, each condition,
is for\is a favourable opportunity. So likewise,

Peter the Weak. 115

whatever is, whatever happens, whatever we see
in this life, w for us a fine opportunity. Poverty
and riches, sickness and health, joy and grief,
good examples and scandals, pains and pleasures :
in a word, every thing is for us a fine opportunity.
Temptations even, and the occasions of sin, which
we have not sought, are for us a fine opportunity
of testifying our fidelity to God. O miserable
they, who have suffered so many opportunities to
pass by, without profiting by them ! They will
have them no more. Thrice happy they who
have profited by them, and who are no longer in
any fear of being exposed to the danger of abusing
them.

PARABLE XXXIII.
Peter the Weak.

A COUNTRYMAN, named Peter, who had never
travelled out of his native village, received intel
ligence of the death of his only brother in the
chief town of the province : and as his brother
had died possessed of very considerable property,
and without issue, he was told that he must, as
being heir to the estate, proceed thither with all
speed, to take possession of it. Accordingly one
fine morning, Master Peter takes his stick, and
sets off. He had not gone two leagues before he
came to a river : it was the first he had ever seen
in his life : at home there were no other streams
than those caused by sudden and violent showers,
which pass away as quickly as they are formed.
At the first sight of this broad and deep river,

116

Peter the Weak.

" Bless me," exclaimed he, " what a deal of wa
ter ! It must have rained a great deal here, since
we at home are complaining of drought. I have
heard it said, that the weather is not the same every
where. See, how one learns by travelling ! But,
what must be done?" continued he. " I shall
certainly be obliged to wait till the water is all
run away.'* That it would soon flow away he was
persuaded, because it flowed so fast, and because
the river a little higher up, forming an easy an
gle, seemed to him to become gradually narrower.
Quite satisfied, our good man seated himself, and
The boatman, observing him from the opposite
side of the river, rowed to him, and asked him if
he wished to pass the river ? " Yes," answered
the countryman. " Well, then," replied the
other, " step into the boat." « Oh ?" said Peter,
'* I am not in such a hurry, as to wish to expose
ray life in your boat." " I have time enough, I
can wait." " As long as you please," answered
the boatman angrily, who thought the fellow was
patiently waited for the river to roll away its waters,
jeering him. In the mean time, other passengers
came up, got into the boat, and were ferried over.
Peter was surprised at their temerity, and still
continued waiting for the water to run off, that
he might pass comfortably; but the river kept
running on.

He waited thus till evening, when he came to
a resolution of putting off his journey till next
day ; and he returned home, not doubting but the
river would then be dry. The next day he re
turned, and the river was still flowing. He came
again three days after, and the river flowed as

Peter the Weak. 117

before. " I am sure," said he, " there is some
witchcraft here : I see plainly, this property is not
for me." In his pet, he surrendered all his right
to his cousin James, who gladly seized the oppor
tunity, passed the river in the boat, got possession
of the property, and returned to his village, where
he ever after lived in affluence and ease ; while
Master Peter remained in his hut and in his mi
sery, and received nothing from his inheritance
but the surname of " The Weak ;" for, from the
time that his adventure became known, he always
received the name of " Peter the Weak.''

Who would imagine that the greater part of
men, with respect to their celestial inheritance,
are guilty of a folly similar to that of this coun
tryman? Yet, such is the case: examine but
sinners, and all those who lead an unchristian or
careless life, and'you will find that they all wait for
the river to flow away. At first, they wait for
youth to pass, and the heat of their passions to
cool ; then they wait till they are comfortably set
tled ; then again, for such a trouble to be over ;
for such an affair to be terminated : and thus they
are always waiting for a suitable time to give
themselves to God ; and they never find it. They
wait for every obstacle to their salvation to be re
moved, and for such to pass away as do present
themselves : and this is waiting for the river to
flow away. Obstacles to salvation are continually
succeeding one another, and form an everlasting
stream, whose source is never dried up. We must
pass[over these obstacles ; we must proceed in spite
of them ; it is by means of them we must advance.

See, how many pass the river, and continue an

G 2

118 The Philosopher s Stone.

their journey. Imitate them ; begin from this day.
If you put off ; if you wish for a more favourable
opportunity, you wait for the river to flow away.
How foolish ! another will supplant you ; and you
will have the mortification of seeing him in pos
session of an inheritance intended for you.

PARABLE XXXIV.
The Philosopher's Stone.

AMONG several other passengers in a boat, were a
merchant named Traffic, and two Capuchin Fri
ars, the one a lay brother, called Eudes. These
three were going to a sea port, in order to embark
for America; the former to seek his fortune, the
latter to devote themselves to the labours of the
mission. No sooner had the boat set sail, than
the merchant, to amuse the company, thus ad
dressed himself to Father Anthony: "There needs
but very little to make a Capuchin of me. I have
made three voyages to America, and each time I
returned as poor as I went. I have neither wife
nor money ; what then hinders me from becoming
a friar ?" " Since there is so little impediment,"
said Father Anthony, " you ought to go through
with what you propose." " Certainly," said the
pilot. " Hold," replied the merchant ; " I will
first make another voyage, and I may perhaps
meet with better success. How happy are they,"
continued he, " who are in possession of the phi
losopher's stone ! They make their fortune at
once, and without trouble." " If there is nothing

The Philosophers Stone. 1 1 9

but that wanting to make you happy," said the
father. " I can give it you, if you desire it." "De
sire it!" replied the merchant eagerly ; "certainly
I do ; to be possessed of it, would be the summit
of my wishes ; pray give it me," he continued,
at the same time holding out his hand. This
raised the curiosity of all present; — all was si
lence and attention, in the hope of seeing that fa
mous stone, the imaginary source of all riches.
" But," said the father, " first tell me of what sort
you will have it." "Are there various sorts?"
asked Traffic. " Yes," said the friar, " there are
some that change into silver, and others that
change into gold." " Oh !" replied Traffic, " give
me that which changes into gold." "Right," said
the Father, "always make it a point to choose
the best. "But," continued he, "you must choose
again ; for there are some, that change into gold
for two years, for one year, or for six months ;
and there are others, that change for ten, twenty,
fifty, or a hundred years." " Give me still the
best," said Traffic, "the one, which turns into
gold for a hundred years." " And do you expect
to live a hundred years longer?" said the Father.
" No," replied the merchant ; " but what does
that signify ? The gold itself will last a hundred
years ; and I can make use of it as Jong as I live."
" But," said the father, " suppose I were to give
you one that possessed the property, not only of
changing into gold for a hundred years, but of
prolonging your life for the same term." " Oh !
my good Sir," said Traffic earnestly, " pray do
give me that." " Still," said the father, "'after
that period, you must at length die." " I am well

120 The Philosopher's Stone.

persuaded of that," answered the merchant; "but
then I shall have enjoyed a long life, and a com
fortable one too." " By what I see," said Father
Anthony, " you are not only attached to life, but
fond also of a happy life. I pity you much, and
must give you the real philosopher's stone, that
which changes all into gold, not for any limited
time, but for ever ; and which will procure for
you immortality.'' " In what does that consist ?"
asked Traffic. "It consists," replied the Father,
" in doing all your actions for God ; in suffering
whatever may befal you, in submission to his will;
and in directing your attention to his glory and
love. This holy love turns all into gold, and that
for ever; and will secure to you life eternal."
" Ah! said Traffic, " I perceive you are banter
ing me. This is not the gold I mean : I want
something more sounding and more solid." "How
DOW !" said the Father, " do you then think, that
what endures for ever is not more solid, than that
which lasts but for a moment ; — and that the
goods, which procure you a happy and never-end
ing life, are not of more value than those, which
so far from being able to avert death, cannot even
ensure you one single day of life or health." "All
that is very good," said the merchant ; " but we
do not all choose to be paid in that coin." They
had now reached the port ; and the boatman came,
and demanded of each passenger his fare.

As soon as they had landed, the passengers se
parated, and the two Capuchins walked off to
gether. Brother Eudes, having now an opportu
nity of expressing his sentiments on the subject
of the late conversation, thus addressed Father

The Philosopher's Stone. 121

Anthony: "Truly, Father, you have given us
an excellent Philosopher's Stone. What use Mr.
Traffic will make of it, I do not know ; but for
my part, I am determined to profit by it at all
times." "You will do well," said Father An
thony ; " but at the same time, you must pray
for Mr. Traffic; for he listened to me with so
much attention, that I have great hopes of him."
" I understand," said Brother Eudes, " by what
you said, that doing our actions for a good end,
is changing them into silver : for example, prac
tising good works, and giving alms, to efface one's
sins, or to obtain the grace not to fall into them
again, is gaining silver ; but that, to do these
things for the love of God, is gaining gold.'' "My
dear Brother," answered Father Anthony, " the
motive of the love of God does not exclude other
motives : in doing an action out of a particular
motive, such, for instance, as the effacing of sin,
you need not stop there, but go farther, and wish
to efface your sins for the love and glory of God,
and for the sanctification of his holy name ; and
then all will be changed into gold. Every thing,
even our sanctification, and perfection, ought to
be referred to God." " Ah ! now," said the Bro
ther, " I understand how it is, and see my ignor
ance in this affair, for want of instruction : but
from henceforth I will refer every thing ultimately
to the love and glory of God." Discoursing in
this manner, they arrived at the vessel, and em
barked for America.

Four years after, affairs of the mission obliged

Father Anthony to return to Europe. At the first

. Capuchin Convent that he arrived at, he was sur-

122 Mary Anne, or

prised at the porter running to him, and saying,
as he embraced him : " Ah ! Father Anthony, how
glad I am to see you again !" — " To see me,"
said Father Anthony : " I do not recollect ever
having seen you before : who are you ?" " I am,'*
replied Brother Francis, " porter of the convent."
" I know you no better for that," said the Father.
" I did, however, sail down the river in the same
boat with you." Then the Father, looking atten
tively at him. "Are you then Mr. Traffic?"
" The very person ; he, to whom you gave the
Philosopher's Stone. This occupied all my
thoughts, after I left you ; and instead of going
to America, I came to this convent, where I
gained admittance, and where I daily endeavour
to profit by the Philosopher's Stone." The reli
gious all assembled to receive Father Anthony,
and Brother Francis related to them his history ;
by which they were all much edified, and animated
more than ever to do and suffer all for the love of
God. Let us animate ourselves to this holy,
sweet, and advantageous practice: it is true riches;
it is the Philosopher's Stone.

PARABLE XXXV.
Mary Anne, or the Orphan preferred.

A GENTLEMAN named Ralph, being left a widow
and without children, as he was in the decline of
life, retired to one of his estates, there to devote
himself to the practice of good works, and the
care of his salvation. It was his daily custom,

the Orphan preferred. 123

at a certain hour, to have soup, meat, bread, and
money, carried into a large hall, where he distri
buted them himself to all the poor that presented
themselves. Among these was a young girl eleven
years old, named Mary Anne, who always kissed
the hand of her benefactor on receiving the alms.
As she was the only one that thus testified her
gratitude, Ralph could not but notice her ; and
he was careful to give her always a larger portion
than the rest. On a closer view, he discovered
that, though covered with rags, she was very
handsome. " This child," said he to himself,
" must be possessed of noble sentiments, from the
manner in which she testifies her gratitude, and I
will be her friend. But yet, I think it will be
proper to try her." The next day Mary Anne
came, as usual, to receive an alms. Ralph served
every body but her ; and she being left with him
alone in the hall, he said: " I have nothing, child,
for thee — all is given away." Mary Anne, how
ever, kissed his hand as before. "Very well,"
thought Ralph ; but determined to make another
trial of her. The day following, he passed her
by again ; and when all was distributed, and she
alone remained, assuming a look of displeasure,
he told her abruptly, that there was nothing left
for her. The child, for all that, did not fail to
advance and kiss his hand. Ralph was charmed.
" I can hardly find in my heart," said he, " to put
her to another trial : however, if she sustain a
third trial, there is nothing I will not do for her."
The next day, the same ceremony took place :
Mary Anne was passed by, and the rest were all
served and gone. •< Child/' said Ralph, « there

124 Mary Anne, or

is nothing left for you even this time." She ad
vanced as before, and kissed his hand. Ralph be
ing no longer able to sustain so much goodness,
thus addressed her : " My dear little girl, follow
the servants into the kitchen, and they will give
you your dinner." " Sir, it is not so much on my
own account that I ask alms, as for the support
of a good old woman who brought me up, and
with whom I live. I would much rather, Sir, not
dine, if you would have the goodness to order
your servants to give me something for her."
" Well," replied Ralph, " go and get your dinner :
I have something to say to you, and you shall
take some dinner for your good woman." Mary
Anne having dined, he came into the kitchen to
her ; and being seated, he called her to him and
said ; " Mary Anne, what did you think of me
the two last days, when I gave you nothing ?"
" Sir," said she, " I did not think any thing."
" How can that be ? — But you must positively
tell me what your thoughts were : I insist upon
it." " As you exact it, Sir, I will tell you. I
thought, if it happened by chance, that such was
the will of God, and that I ought to bear it with
patience : but if on the contrar}^ you, Sir, did
it designedly, it was for my good, and that you
had your intentions, and that these intentions
would be to my advantage." " But," rejoined
Ralph, " on the second day, when I appeared an
gry, and spoke sharply to you, what did you then
think ?" " That, Sir, confirmed me in the opi
nion that you did it designedly: I was well satis
fied, and entertained still greater hopes." " Is it
possible," exclaimed Ralph,.lookii>g at his servants.

the Orphan preferred. 125

who were listening to this conversation, " is it
possible, that a child of her age should have such
thoughts ?" " But," added he, turning to the
little girl, suppose I had continued to do so for a
long time ?" " I should, Sir," said she, " have
still hoped." " Go, my dear child," said Ralph ;
" take your good old woman some dinner, and
tell her I wish afterwards to speak with her ; that
she must come hither, and you along with her."

It is unnecessary to enter into a detail of what
happened afterwards ; the relation would appear
too much like romance. Suffice it to say, that
Ralph learned from this woman, that Mary Anne
was daughter of a gentleman of his acquaintance,
who had died of chagrin at the loss of a law-suit,
which his wife's heirs had carried on against him
to his ruin. Ralph provided for the good old wo
man, educated Mary Anne in a manner suitable
to her condition, loved her as if she had been his
own child, and some years after married her to his
nephew, making her heiress to his estate.

How affecting is this story ! Let us consider it
for a moment, and draw from it some instructions.
In the goodness of Ralph, we see a faint image of
the benefits of God, and of his designs over us ;
and in the conduct of Mary Anne, we see what
ours ought to be with regard to God. God gives
abundantly to all ; let us thank him. If he gives
to some more than to you, still thank him. In all
the afflictions he may send you, be persuaded that
he has his designs ; that they are all for your ad
vantage ; and kiss the hand that chastises you. St.
Paul gives us an excellent abridgment of a spi
ritual life, when he tells us to thank God for all

126 The Microscope.

things, through our Lord Jesus Christ. Our in
gratitude dries up the fountain of those graces and
favours, which the Almighty would otherwise be
stow upon us. " Know ye not," says St. Peter,
" that a heavenly inheritance is the fruit of your
patience ?" If then, you aspire at this happiness,
be grateful. Gratitude will make God your Fa
ther, Jesus Christ your Spouse, and Heaven your
inheritance.

PARABLE XXXVI.
The Microscope.

CARDINAL SFRANDATUS, a celebrated writer of
the Benedictine Order, relates a curious fact that
happened at the death of a German Jesuit. This
Jesuit, whose name was Tanner, a man both pious
and learned, was going from Prague* to In-
spruck,f in hopes his native air would establish
his health. Unable, however, to bear the fatigue
of the journey, he died in a village on the road.
The magistrate of the place immediately repaired
to the house, and in taking an inventory of his
luggage, found a little box, the extraordinary
structure of which made it appear mysterious and
suspicious ; for it was black, and composed of
wood and glass. But how great was the surprise
and astonishment, on the first who looked through
the glass at the top, drawing back in affright, and

* A city of Germany, and capital of the kingdom of
Bohemia,
f A town of Germany, capital of the Tyrolese.

The Microscope. 127

exclaiming : " I renounce thee, Satan." The same
effect was produced upon all that were hardy
enough to look through the glass. The fact was,
they saw in the box a living animal, black, enor
mous, and frightful, of immense length, and with
threatening horns. The terror was universal, and
no one seemed to know what to think of so horrible
a monster ; when a young gentleman, who had just
finished his course of philosophy, observed to the
assembly, that the animal which was in the box
was much bigger than the box itself; that in the
present instance, the contained was larger than
the container, which was contrary to every prin
ciple of philosophy, and could not be according
to the order of nature ; whence he concluded,
that the animal in the box was not material, but
that it must be some spirit under the form of an
animal. This observation was received with uni
versal applause, and every one was persuaded that
it was the devil himself that was in the box. Of
the person who had carried the box with him, it
was concluded, with the same evidence, that he
could not have had it but for some bad end, and
that he could have been nothing but a sorcerer.
The report of this adventure spread far and wide,
and immense crowds of people came to the house,
for the purpose of having a peep into the box ;
and each one said to all he met : " I have seen the
devil to-day."

The judge condemned the deceased to be de
prived of Christian burial, and left an order for
the curate to perform the exorcisms of the Church,
for the purpose of expelling the devil from the
box, and of driving him out of the country. The

128 The Microscope.

sentence of the judge extended no further, but
the politicians of the village carried their reflec
tions to a prodigious length. The witchcraft of
Father Tanner, according to them, was common
to all the confraternity ; and, therefore, they
thought it right and just, that a sweeping sentence
of banishment should include them all, according
to that of Virgil : " Crijniney ab uno disce
omnes"

Whilst each one was busy in giving this wonder,
or rather scandal, his own interpretation, and the
minds of all were in inexpressible agitation and fer
ment, a Prussian Philosopher chanced to pass
through the village. The inhabitants did not fail
to entertain him with the news of the day ; but,
when he heard them mention the Jesuitical Con
juror, and the devil confined in a box, he laughed
heartily, both at the news and the newsmongers.
Being, however, visited by the principal inhabit
ants, . and earnestly pressed to come and see with
his own eyes the wonderful thing he would not
believe on their relation, he yielded to their solici
tations ; and on the magic box being shewn him,
wondering he exclaimed : " Js it possible, that the
late invention of the microscope should not have
been heard of in this part of the country ? This
is a microscope — a microscope, I tell you. But
nobody knew what he meant ; the term was as
little understood as the thing itself: some even
began to suspect him for a sorceror, and would
have condemned him as such, had he not quickly
destroyed the charm, and dissipated the illusion.
Taking, therefore, the box, he removed the co
ver, in which the lens was enchased, and turning

The Microscope. 129

the box upside down, out came a little horn-bee
tle, and crawled upon the table. The philosopher
then explained this optic mystery in a manner
suited to their comprehension. New admiration
now succeeded the first, and the animal appeared
as laughable an object on the table, as it had
been frightful in the box. All suspicions now
vanished : the judge tore the sentence; the good
name of the father was restored, and each one re
turned laughing home. Busy people, however,
were found, who published this adventure, men
tioning the box, and the sentence of the judge,
but forgetting to say any thing about either the
philosopher or the microscope.

This story, how ridiculous soever it may ap
pear, furnishes us with a very important instruc
tion, for the correction principally of three faults :

I. Our haste in judging ill of others. We view
other people's faults only through a microscope,
which enlarges objects surprisingly. This micros
cope is our heart ; and the lens, our malignity.
What are all the crimes, those frightful monsters,
we discover in others ? Nothing but a horn-bee
tle in the microscope. Take away the lens, and
there will remain, at most, something laughable,
or deserving our compassion and indulgence.

II. Our readiness in believing what is reported
of others. Rest assured, that they, who speak
ill of their neighbour, only report what they have
seen in the microscope. If they relate what others
have said, it is one microscope on another; and
the farther a report is spread, the more it is dis
torted and augmented, and the more are the mi
croscopes multiplied. Remove the lens from them

130 Aristhenes, or the Feeble revenged.

all, and what will you find ? A horn-beetle in
each microscope.

III. Our itching to report the evil we know of
our neighbour. Never be so base as to speak of
the monster in the box, without mentioning the
microscope ; or, if you do not choose to speak of
the latter, be silent as to the former, and leave it
for what it is, a horn-beetle in the microscope.
Alas I how many countries, towns, and houses,
are there, still ignorant of the invention and de
ception of the microscope !

PARABLE XXXVII.
Aristhenes, or the Feeble revenged.

A PHILOSOPHER named Aristhenes, while passing
quietly along the principal street of Thebes, in
Bcetia, received a violent blow from a stone :
turning immediately round, he discovered the
man who had thrown it, and went straight to him :
but, finding him to be a stout resolute fellow, he
drew out of his pocket a small piece of money,
which he gave him, saying : " Excuse me, my
friend, for not giving you more for the service
you have just done me: were I richer, I would re
ward you more handsomely. " But," added he,
" see that gentleman before you ; if you will serve
him the same, you will, I doubt not, receive from
him a suitable reward, both for himself and me."
This gentleman was no other than the famous
Epaminondas, the greatest warrior and the most

Aristhenes, or the Feeble revenged. 131

able captain in all Greece.* He was going to his
palace on foot, accompanied only by two general
officers, and preceded by six halberdiers. Our
young Bcetian, believing what the philosopher
told him, takes up a stone, and throws it against,
the gentleman's back, and, fool-like, waits in ex
pectation of his reward. He was rewarded ac
cording to his deserts ; for two halberdiers rushed
upon him, and having given him several severe
blows on his back and shoulders with their hal-
berts, led him off to the state prison. Aristhenes
took care to give him the meeting. As soon
as the young man saw him : " Ah ! perfidious
wretch," cried he, " you have deceived me : be
hold the reward I receive." " It is such as thy
insolence deserves/' replied the philosopher ; " it
was thou that deceivedst thyself for supposing thou
couldst, with impunity, insult passengers who
did thee no harm, nor even spoke to thee. Did
I not tell thee, that gentleman would pay thee
for himself and for me too ?" The young man
owned his fault, and was going to beg of the phi
losopher to intercede for him ; but his guards
gave him no time. He was dragged to prison,
and his punishment was death.

* Greece, the ancient name of that part of Turkey in
Europe, which contains Macedonia, Thessaly, Livadia,
the Morea, the Archipelago, and Candia, has been reckoned
superior to every other part of the earth, on account of the
salubrity of the air, the temperature of the climate, the
fertility of the soil, and above all, the valour, learning, and
art of its inhabitants. The most celebrated of its cities
were Athens, Sparta, Corinth, Argos, Thebes, Sicyon,
Mycenae, Delphi, Traezene, Salamis, Megara, Pylos, etc.

132 Aristhenes, or the Feeble revenged.

Three things are here to be considered: — 1. The
stratagem of the philosopher. The weak and op
pressed Christian has no occasion to make use of
such means, because it is already regulated and
determined, that whatever evil is done to him, is
done to his King. The only thing he has to do,
is to bear all with patience, to rejoice at the pros
pect of the reward promised him, and to pray for
the person that abuses him, that he may, by a
sincere repentance and just reparation, remove
the severe chastisements, which the Eternal King
has in reserve for him.

II. The stupidity of the Bretian. You, no
doubt, esteem yourself much wiser <han this man,
and you flatter yourself you should never have
fallen into such a snare. I believe you ; neither
have I any difficulty in believing, that you would
not do to a nobleman, able to revenge himself,
what you do not daily scruple to do to the poor,
and to those whom you do not fear : but in this
you are certainly more foolish than this stupid
Bcetian, since you well know, that all the evil, all
the injustice, all the pain, and all the vexation
that you cause, to the least of these little ones,
you do to the King of Heaven, he having de
clared, that what is done to them he considers as
done to himself.

III. The rigour of the punishment. If the
punishment appear to you excessive, remember,
that a slight offence, if committed against a king,
becomes enormous, and deserves the severest pu
nishment. Take care, then, how you offend the
least of your brethren, because it would be offend
ing the King of Heaven himself, who, to punish

The Complaint of the Cretans to Jupiter. 133

you, has prepared for you dungeons of fire, ever
lasting fire, On the contrary, exert yourself to
afford your brethren all the assistance you can,
and to procure them all the pleasures and comforts
in your power : because all the good you do them,
the King of Heaven has declared he will consider
as done to himself; and on this condition will he
reward you with eternal happiness and glory.
Oh ! how ought this truth to inspire us with sen
timents of mildness, patience, respect, condes
cension, and charity towards our neighbour.

PARABLE XXXVIII.
The Complaint of the Cretans to Jupiter.

THE Cretans one day represented to Jupiter, how
disgraceful and mortifying it was to them, that,
their island having served him as a cradle, and
his having been for a considerable time educated
among them, he had never yet granted them any
particular privilege, to distinguish them from the
other nations of the earth. They, therefore, en
treated him to grant them one worthy of his ma
jesty and bounty, and of the affection he bore
them. Jupiter sent Mercury to tell them, that
they had only to name the desired privilege, and
that he would grant it them. He even added,
that, in case a first and second favour should not
satisfy their wishes, he would allow them to make
a third petition. This gracious offer was received
with rapture by the Cretans.

The first petition they preferred, that the in-

134 The Complaint of

habitants of Crete should be, during life, exempt
from labour, pains, sufferings, troubles, and evils
of every description. Mercury, on the part of
Jupiter, told them their petition was extravagant,
and that this exemption was the privilege of the
gods, and could not be granted to men; and
therefore, they must proceed to a second petition.

The second prayer was, that they should, at
least, be permitted to exchange their pains and
vexations with one another. It was granted, and
Mercury appointed a place, where all those that
wished to change should appear; telling them,
that the fair for this purpose would begin on a
certain day, which he named, and that it should
continue for eight successive days. Each one,
without loss of time, packed up his labours and
pains, and repaired to the appointed place on the
day specified. When the poor observed, that the
rich were of the number intending to barter, they
hastened to them, in the expectation of finding
something advantageous: but having examined
their bundles, their pains, jealousies, apprehen
sions, &c. they would not change, and they with
drew. The rich, who had often extolled the ad
vantages of mediocrity, observing some of this
class at the fair, ran to them for the purpose of
bartering : but on observing their frugality, eco
nomy, &c. they did riot choose to exchange, and
they retired. The fair was full of comers and
goers, lookers-on, and examiners ; but there was
no business done. The eight days passed, and
each one returned as he came.

The Cretans, seeing that their second petition
had succeeded SK> ill, and knowing that they had

the Cretans to Jupiter.

135

only one more to make, assembled to settle what
this last petition should be ; being determined it
should be more moderate than the first, and more
reasonable and practicable than the second.
After much discussion, they at length came to the
following determination, viz. to petition that the
share of their pains and labours should not exceed
that of their pleasures and profits ; that they
should not be more wretched than happy ; in a
word, that the sum of goods and evils should to
them be equal. Mercury came to tell them, that
Jupiter had very graciously received their third
petition : that he had not only granted what they
asked, but besides, that it was his good pleasure
that they should have double the good things
they had of bad. This declaration was receiv ed
with loud acclamations, and reiterated cries of
" Long live Jupiter ! Long live Mercury !'* Si
lence being at length obtained, Mercury answered
and said unto them : " Let those, then, who wish
for a change in their condition, make two packets.
In one let them put the advantages they enjoy,
and in the other the pains they endure : let them
have both ready on a certain day, and at such a
place. I will be there, and weigh them. If the
sum of goods be not double that of evils, I will
augment the goods, or diminish the evils, to the
proportion granted by Jupiter. Again, if the
evils do not amount to half the goods, I shall
then have to increase the evils, or diminish the
goods, that there may be an exact proportion :
this will be nothing but right. There was a'uni-
versal cry of " Quite right and just," and each

136 The Complaint of

one went home, highly delighted, to make up his
packets.

The day being come, they all repaired to the
place of rendezvous with their packets. Several,
even of the Kings of Crete,* presented themselves
with the rest. Mercury, perceiving that each had
a large packet and a small one, suspected some
cheat, and raising his voice, said : " Gentlemen,
it is not reasonable to expect I should weigh your
packets, without first knowing what they con
tain ; for, if any one enjoys an advantage which
he has left out, I must certainly put it in before
weighing. If any one, on the contrary, shall
have packed up imaginary evils, or such as he
had brought upon himself, these I must undoubt
edly take out ; for I shall not weigh as a real
evil, one which is only imaginary, or in which
you take pleasure." This proposal was received
without a murmur, and even without the smallest
opposition, though some did not feel quite easy.

The first that presented himself was the King
of Gortyna. Mercury opened his small packet,
and found that he had omitted to put in his inde
pendence on every other man ; he therefore put
it in. He had likewise forgotten the excellent
health and strong constitution he was blessed
with: this also was added. Other advantages,
which the king had not noticed, he put in, and
then closed the packet. He next opened his packet

* Crete, one of the largest islands of the Mediterranean
Sea. It was once famous for its hundred cities, and for
the laws which the wisdom of Minos established there.

the Cretans to Jupiter. 137

of troubles, and there found, first, uneasiness
about the ability of the generals of his armies.
An imaginary, or voluntary evil, cried Mercury :
either make a better choice, or command in per
son : this he took out. Secondly mistrust in the
fidelity of the directors of his treasury. This
likewise is imaginary, or voluntary ; and he took it
out, at the same time adding : give thyself the
trouble to make a better choice, and examine their
accounts and proceedings. This duty is comprised
in the packet of the troubles of government,
which thou hast taken care to put in. Thirdly,
fear of what the people will say respecting the go
vernment. This again is imaginary, or volun
tary, repeated Mercury. Make it thy study to
govern well, and thy people will know it, and al
ways speak well of thee : or, should any chance
to speak ill of thee, it will not effect thy happi
ness. Having taken out this third, and others of
the same nature, he closed the packet and weighed.
The packet of troubles was not as heavy as that
of pleasures by one fourth. Mercury, not wish
ing to be too hard with the king, added to the
packet of troubles only a quartan ague for two
years. The other kings, observing how particu
lar Mercury was in his examination, and what
little respect he shewed to the kingly character,
took up their packets and retired.

The second that presented himself, was a
grandee of the first rank. Mercury, opening his
smaller packet, found he had not included in it
the privilege of having no one above him but his
king ; the honour of being descended from a hero,
which nevertheless he often boasted of; and the

H 2

138 The Complaint of

satisfaction of having well-disposed and healthy
children. These three advantages were added,
and the packet closed up. Next was opened the
packet of troubles, where Mercury found, first,
uneasiness as to the fidelity of his wife. " All
imagination," said Mercury, and took it out.
Secondly, the loss of an expensive law-suit. " Vo
luntary," said Mercury : " why didst thou, de
pending on thy credit, carry it on, knowing it to
be unjust?" Thirdly, the vexation of being al
ways unfortunate at play. "Voluntary: either
play better, or not at all." Fourthly, the chagrin,
at being hated by his tenants. " This is all either
imaginarjr Or voluntary. Correct thy vice?, and
they will love thee." After taking out all these,
Mercury closed the packet and weighed. The
pleasures were more than six times heavier than
the troubles. In order to make them nearly equal,
he added the sudden death of the nobleman's el
dest son. Receiving the news of it on the spot,
he hastened to retire. The rest of the nobility,
not willing to stand the test, had already with
drawn.

The third that presented himself was a mer
chant. Mercury, opening the smaller package,
did not find in it the pleasure of having trebled
his fortune in less than four years ; nor that of
having got a great name, and aggrandising his fa
mily ; nor again, that of equalling princes in the
grandeur of his apartments, the splendor of his
retinue, the costliness of his furniture, and the
delicacies of his table. He added these three ar
ticles, and shut up the packet. Opening the other,
he took out the contempt of his wife, who was a

tfte Cretans to 'Jupiter. 139

lady of distinction: " Why," said Mercury, "didst
thou marry her?" " The debaucheries of his son :"
" Why wast thou so careless in his education ?"
" His neighbour's good fortune :" " Why not
rejoice with him on this account ?" " The scoffs
and rebuffs of the nobility :" " Why dost thou
frequent their company ?" " Old age :" " Oh !"
says Mercury, " that goes to the small packet :"
and he put it in. After weighing, the packet of
troubles was found to be only an eighth part of that
of the advantages. Mercury added to the first
the loss of one of his ships, that was coming from
Sidon, and a fit of the gout every six months.
The merchant received the news of the loss of
his ship, and the gout seizing him at the moment,
he retired to his carriage, and hastened home.
Matters being thus settled with the king, the no
bleman, arid the merchant, no other ventured to
present himself. Each one had taken up his pack
ets, and, satisfied with what he had got, retired, be
ing unwilling to expose himself to an examination.
From that time the Cretans never more impor
tuned Jupiter, but remained quiet and content.
Let us be so too ; for this fable concerns us, and
reproaches us with three vices.

First, with pride. We forget that we are men,
subject to pain and sufferings ; that we are on the
earth, a place of labour and sorrow ; that we are
sinners, indebted to the divine justice. An ex
emption from every sort of evil, finds place only
in heaven. If we desire this exemption, let us
desire heaven, let us labour to gain heaven, and
let us make our sufferings serve to this end.
Secondly, with injustice towards others. We

1 40 The Complaint of the Cretans to Jupiter.

are always imagining that we suffer more than
other people. How much soever we may suffer,
how many are there who suffer more than we do?
Let us not envy any one. Let us attend less to
our own difficulties, and think rather of relieving
those of others.

Thirdly, with ingratitude towards God. We
are always talking of what we suffer, without ever
thinking of the benefits heaped upon us by Al
mighty God. We exaggerate the former, and di
minish the latter. Ungrateful as we are ! how
much do we deserve divine punishment ! Let us,
at least, profit by the chastisements that are sent
us, and humble ourselves under the hand that
strikes us. Let us be contented with our lot, and
be thankful to God for every thing.

THE END.

CONTENTS.

PARABLE PAGE

I. The untractable Orphan 4 .... 5

II. . , . . imprudent Slave 8

III. Manna of the Desert 17

IV.. .... Sleep- Walker . 22

V. Astronomer in Lapland ......... 27

VI. ....Viper-Catcher 30

VII. Beam in the Water 35

VIII. Empedocles on Mount Etna 37

IX. Women 42

X. Pious Cheat of a Capuchin 44

XL Definition of the present Life 47

XTI. The Oracle of Delphi 48

XIII. .... Pope's Penitent 52

XIV Thread of Life 53

XV. Singular Taste of a King of the Bulgarians 55

XVI. The incredulous Marquis 56

XVII. A second Narcissus 63

XVIII. The Poet undeceived 68

XIX. Laughable Dream of a Monk 74

XX. Young Flora, or Love-letters 77

XXI. Precautions 80

XXII. The King of Cosmia 83

CONTENTS.
PARABLE PAGE

XXTII. The imprudent Traveller 88

XXIV Coat of Arms of Martin V 91

XXV. Algebraist 92

XXVI beautiful Julia 95

XXVII unfortunate Traveller • 101

XXVIII. Agrippina's Expedient 103

XXIX. The disgraced Courtiers , 104

XXX. .... affectionate Attachment of Tigranes

and Berenice 105

XXXI. Beautiful Application of a Passage from

Anacreon 108

XXXII. The King of Castile, or the favourable

opportunity Ill

XXXIII. Peter the Weak 115

XXXIV. The Philosopher's Stone 118

XXXV. Mary Anne, or the Orphan preferred . . 122

XXXVI. The Microscope 126

XXXVII. Aristhenes, or the Feeble revenged . . 130

XXXVIII. The complaint of the Cretans to Jupiter 133

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